Henceforth
by worldaccordingtofangirls
Summary: Three-shot. We are never too old to lose our identities - America stumbles, Alfred aches, and Arthur understands the fall of empire all too well - so we find them again. Post-modern day. Canon. USUK. Yaoi.
1. These Days

So I promised that I would write this after finishing my USUK AU _Keep Dreaming, America, _and I now intend to make good on that promise. Thus, after lots of tears and blood and banging my head on the keyboard, here we go: the companion fic that is not really a companion fic. At all. Seriously. The only thing they have in common is the underlying theme. They're not even the same universe...

Canon. Set circa 2050. Three chapters, weekly updates.

**Pre-fic ANs (feel free to skip except you probably should read them but you don't have to):**

So America's downfall as a world power was sort of an underlying theme in _Keep Dreaming, America, _and that idea serves as the principal theme in this here fic. I have also had some fun with wordplay and shamelessly copied a touch of the dialogue here and there, but otherwise…no, it's really NOT a companion fic.

There will be three chapters, each divided into however many sections necessary. Each of these sections will be labeled with either the title of the chapter or a word that I believe could be used / has been used to describe the United States of America as a country, and Alfred as a person. **These are my personal views. **None of them are offensive or terribly opinionated, but…I dunno, I feel I should emphasize this.

Though it is set in the future, the story will have a lot of flashbacks from various time periods in the chapters to come. In this chapter, Mexico makes an appearance as an OC; he is rather lamely titled _Fernando _because I wanted to borrow my friend's OC (dubbed _Alejandro, _which is a much sexier name) but then realized that I had forgotten to ask permission. So I named him after my favorite Spanish teacher orz.

Anyways, BECAUSE THIS IS SET IN THE FUTURE, the economic climate I portray is drastically different from the one we all know and are currently exasperated with. Really, _drastically different._ Of course I have no idea if anything I write in here will actually happen, but it's fun to speculate, you know? Also I don't really know too much about economics so I apologize in advance in case I make some sort of outrageous claim…

Oh and I stole the first line of this fic from a drabble I deleted a little while ago because I decided I hated everything about it except for, guess what, the first line, which I actually rather liked.

The end.

**I hope you enjoy,** because this fic is a real challenge and I'm…rather worried about it, honestly. T_T

* * *

><p><em>These Days<em>

Arthur woke because Alfred wasn't there to wake him. There was no arm slung possessively around his waist, no heavy ribcage expanding and contracting against his own, no soft come and go of breathing against the back of his neck, no glasses biting into his shoulder, no little groan of protest when he rolled over across the empty mattress and sat up to blink groggily at the clock; it was scarcely morning and dawn was far from breaking, marking the dimensions of the room in shadows that together formed an indistinct grey palette, charcoals and silvers and almost-blacks blending together at their corners.

The absence of his bedmate wasn't so much alarming as it was merely noticeable, and Arthur sighed, untangling the sheets from around his legs and pulling them back into place before he got up to shuffle around for his robe because the night had lent a bite to the air and he was wearing nothing but his boxers and a thin nightshirt left unbuttoned at his throat. Eventually he stumbled out into the hallway, blinking as he adjusted to the dimensionless shadow of the pre-dawn before catching sight of a slender bar of gold that cut a diagonal path across the floor and following the trickle of light to its source: the door to Arthur's study, left slightly ajar and offering a clue as to Alfred's whereabouts.

Sure enough, when Arthur eased the door further open and peered inside, he caught sight of Alfred hunched over his desk; he looked to be hard at work but upon closer inspection Arthur discerned that his face was actually pressed between the pages of what seemed to be the extremely rough draft of some miscellaneous economic proposal, the position jarring his glasses upwards at an unnatural angle so that the lenses caught the lamplight and illuminated the tired lines running down from his eyes, emphasized the presence of the new-formed creases at the corners of his mouth.

Arthur frowned, pulling his robe closer around himself with one hand as the other reached out to run through Alfred's hair; a few moments of this passed before Alfred shifted, groaned, and caught Arthur's wrist, blinking up at him reproachfully from beneath the crooked frames of his spectacles.

"Lemme alone, Arthur," he gave an enormous yawn. "I'm trying to work."

"Oh yes," Arthur smirked at the disarrayed state of the papers, "_trying _apparently being the key word here."

Alfred didn't seem to register the comment, instead reaching out to pick up his pen again as he mumbled something about controlling Chinese imports. Arthur rolled his eyes for his own benefit before he plucked the pen from Alfred's fingers, fixing him with a very stern look when he turned with a cry of protest and extended his hand, informing Arthur that _he needed that _and looking confused when Arthur indifferently tucked the pen into the breast pocket of his robe and acridly reminded him that they had been asleep for scarcely an hour and Alfred would do better in tomorrow's meeting with a spot of sleep rather than a handful of half-baked proposals born of an exhausted mind.

"But I - "

"But nothing, Alfred. Surely you can find a better pillow than," he glanced down at the title of whatever Alfred had been sleeping on, "this, ahm…_super-effective-plan-to-get-China-to-be-chill-for-once-and-forget-about-that-debt-thing," _he sighed. "It would seem that you're worse off than I thought. Come on, love," he leaned over the desk to neaten the stack of papers, placing the stolen pen crisply at the side of the pile. "It's good that you're working so hard, I suppose, but really…at this point, sleep would benefit you more."

Apparently having returned to full consciousness, Alfred groaned and straightened his glasses, running the palm of his hand over his face exhaustedly.

"Sorry," he muttered, blinking heavily. "I know I've been thinking about all this too much. It's just…" he glanced uneasily at the pile of papers, a crease appearing between his brows. "I don't know, I feel like…" he trailed off, and Arthur sighed, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Perhaps as if the whole world were expecting a miracle from you?"

Alfred blinked at him in surprise. "Yeah, exactly."

"Well, that's because they are."

Alfred shot him a reproachful glance. "Thanks for the big help, Art, really. Nice to know you're always there for me."

"I'm merely being honest," Arthur frowned. "You've been a superpower for more than half a century, Alfred, providing – or at least claiming to provide – miracles, so what do you think they're going to do? You're the hero, you've said so yourself, and it is certainly not their fault that you've created this ridiculous…_persona…_and are now expected to live up to it."

Alfred glared at him for a moment, then groaned and reached out to catch his waist and pull him forwards, burying his face in his shoulder. Arthur sighed tolerantly, running a hand through Alfred's hair and letting him burrow against his collarbone.

"Fine, you might be right," mumbled Alfred eventually, "so it's okay if I just sleep right here, isn't it?" His voice was strangely garbled because his mouth was pressed against the collar of Arthur's nightshirt, and Arthur chuckled, though he was starting to sag a bit beneath Alfred's weight.

"I don't think so, love," he said affectionately, pushing at Alfred with no real force. "I'm afraid I can't hold you up quite long enough."

He felt Alfred shake his head against his neck and his lips brush against his jugular in what must have been an attempt at a kiss.

"Sure you can," he murmured, arms snaking upwards to pull Arthur closer, hands running beneath his shirt to press against his bare back. "Just gotta give it a try."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You're scarcely coherent anymore, pet. Now, please, let's go back to bed, yeah?"

After a few moments more of nuzzling against him, Alfred stopped to mumble an unintelligible complaint into his neck.

"I'm not carrying you," Arthur warned him, though he was still smiling over his shoulder.

Alfred replied that, if that was the case, they could just stay where they were, then leaned upwards to trace kisses along the arc of Arthur's jaw, soft and tired and a little sloppy whilst Arthur sighed and allowed this to continue for another minute before he ducked from beneath Alfred's arms and spun away from him towards the doorway, stopping to flick off the lights, reassured of Alfred's presence by the soft pad of his footsteps behind him and the heavy arm that eventually crept around his waist, making him stumble and curse at his own feet. He shooed Alfred away until they had returned to the bed, then willingly lay back and allowed him to drape himself over his chest, kissing lazily at the hollow of his throat and running his hands clumsily up and down his sides

"Alfred," murmured Arthur, halfheartedly reaching out to stop him when he went for the buttons of his nightshirt, "I said sleep, if you don't recall."

Alfred frowned at him. "But this'll help me sleep better."

Arthur snorted, reaching up to brush his thumb across Alfred's cheek, his smirk dissolving into an affectionate smile when he noticed an ink stain smudged across the bridge of his nose. "Oh, so is that all I'm good for?" he teased, leaning up to peck Alfred on the little blotch of ink. "A quick fuck to get you to bed faster?"

Alfred grinned crookedly. "Come on, that's such an ugly way of putting it," he made another attempt at his buttons and Arthur didn't resist, letting the fabric fall away at his shoulders and welcoming Alfred against his exposed collarbone, "I personally prefer to think of you as an adult sort of lullaby."

Arthur laughed aloud, though the sound melted into a little murmur of encouragement as Alfred stretched up to nip at his jugular. "How charming; that really makes me feel sexy," he pressed his lips briefly to Alfred's forehead, "you certainly do know how to woo a lover."

"Mm, it comes from years of experience," Alfred began to travel down Arthur's bare chest, littering kisses across the gentle slopes of muscle along his abdomen, pausing to circle his navel and press his mouth into the shallow curves of his hipbones, then eventually returning to kiss him properly, arms running down and beneath his back to cradle him to his chest. The kiss was lazy and Arthur returned it with an equally relaxed enthusiasm, letting Alfred burrow into his neck as he slipped him out of his t-shirt, thumbs tracing clumsy circles along his sides. Arthur blinked as Alfred nibbled at his earlobe, hazily registering that his ribs were much more pronounced than before, not more than gentle ridges beneath his fingers but nonetheless definitely noticeable.

"You've lost weight," he murmured, gazing down as his hand traced over the small of Alfred's back, crept lower to run across the swell of his behind.

"Have I?" Alfred's thumbs slipped beneath the hem of his boxers and Arthur lifted his hips to allow him to slide them off.

"Definitely," Arthur ran his hand over the curve of Alfred's hip, felt the prominent jut of bone press against his palm. "Alfred, you haven't lost weight since your Civil War."

"You don't say," Alfred clearly wasn't as much interested in pursuing the conversation as he was in running his mouth over every inch of Arthur's body, hands wandering up and down his back with a practiced pace that had come slowly from familiarity.

"I do say," retorted Arthur tartly, though he sighed when Alfred pressed more sharply against him, trying to draw him in for another kiss. "It's terribly odd."

"Thought you'd be happy," murmured Alfred, making a dive for his lips and landing at the corner of his mouth because Arthur had turned his chin away stubbornly, "what with how you're always complaining."

"Shut up, you know I don't mean it," Arthur blushed at Alfred's resultant grin, swatting him on the shoulder. "Oh, fuck off, what I'm trying to say is it's just _strange, _is all…" he paused, furrowing his brow, "I can't believe I'm asking _you_ this, of all people, but…have you been eating properly?"

Alfred glanced up at him dubiously. "Are we really having this conversation _now_?"

"So it would seem."

Alfred sighed, resting his chin on Arthur's shoulder. "To be honest, I haven't really been keeping track. I've been pretty busy with work lately, y'know, and food just isn't my first priority anymore."

Arthur couldn't help but stare at him. "Excuse me?"

"It's just not as important."

Arthur cleared his throat. "I…I never would have thought…"

"Besides," Alfred was continuing. "All that grease kinda sticks in my stomach and makes me sluggish, and I have so much to get done that I can't really afford that most of the time. And sometimes I get so wrapped up in whatever I'm doing that I just forget, y'know?"

Arthur glanced down at him again, running his eyes over the faint lines of his ribs, the new leanness to the bend of his waist, the absence of softness at the backs of his hips, before he returned his gaze to his face and saw that the line of his jaw was squarer and his cheekbones were more pronounced, adding a certain element of maturity to his features despite the blotch of ink that was still smudged across the bridge of his nose.

"Sure," he said quietly, unconsciously cupping Alfred's cheek in his palm. "I know."

Alfred grinned crookedly at him and turned to press a kiss into the curve of his palm, smirking when Arthur snorted and looked away, dropping his hand back to the sheets.

"Can we get on with this now?" Alfred whispered, leaning up so that their noses almost touched. Arthur didn't respond except to accept his kiss, tangling his arms around his neck and spreading his legs to accommodate him, leaving him at liberty to do whatever he liked. But even as Alfred roved up and down his body, pressing a kiss into every dip and curve of muscle, he couldn't stop his mind from wandering, though he arched and sighed and whispered encouragement as usual.

The conversation about Alfred's weight loss had only served as an unpleasant reminder of what Arthur had been noticing – and worrying about – for months. The changes certainly weren't dramatic, and perhaps they were only visible to Arthur's practiced eye; after all, in public Alfred still behaved as he always had, loudly and obnoxiously and as if he really were under the impression that he was the best damn thing the world had ever enjoyed the honor of seeing. However, away from the countless meetings and press conferences and formal luncheons, he had grown more subdued, almost strained, working all the time and worrying himself over things like drafts and proposals and newspaper headlines that had never been of any particular importance to him before. Indeed, he frowned at the front page of _The New York Times _every morning, frowned at the evening news every night, frowned at every status report that was deposited on his uncharacteristically organized desk day in, day out, frowned until he finally tumbled into bed beside Arthur and proceeded to make love to him with an almost agonizing slowness, exhibiting not even the faintest semblance of his usual sense of hurry, taking his time and cradling Arthur to him so gently that he usually had to be reminded rather sharply that his partner was the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and therefore most certainly not a china doll. And though creases wrought by smiling and laughter crinkled the skin around the corners of his eyes, these were also accompanied by dark circles and the uneasy lines that jutted down from the edges of his lips, together making him seem considerably older, perhaps wiser, and a good deal more tired.

Given the worldwide political and economic climate, Arthur supposed this was only to be expected - in fact, he was rather too well acquainted the unpleasant aftereffects of absolute supremacy himself - but nonetheless he was concerned, entirely unused to and almost alarmed by Alfred's sudden change, unsettled by the edge of cynicism that was beginning to lend itself to his behavior, however necessary and natural this all might be. The passage of time was beginning to show itself, and Arthur recognized its presence all too well; he remembered his own fall from power and knew that even the United States, even Alfred, the eternal golden boy born of the odds and ends of European cultures mangled together, couldn't be immune to the inevitable forever. Nonetheless, he hardly liked to see him suffer, pacing around his study for hours, poring over newspapers until his fingertips were smudged black, losing weight because he was _forgetting to eat, _simply because it all fit him terribly, almost like the too-stiff suits that he used to bumble around in during the 1920s and thirties when he was still trying to impress the entire world, and Arthur was growing steadily more and more discomfited by his pensive moods and sudden seizures of thoughtfulness and affection, all of which were very pleasant but not in accordance with the careless but genuine overgrown boy that Arthur had loved since the moment he laid eyes on him even if he forgot important things and spoke without thinking and always treated love too enthusiastically, moving clumsily but honestly and always with an enormous rush as if someone was poised to snatch Arthur from his arms at any moment.

However, Alfred was very clearly not laboring under that particular delusion at the moment; he moved slowly and deliberately, though Arthur still drew in his breath when he slipped into him, shutting his eyes and sighing and tangling his legs around his waist as if he could ensure his safety by clutching him there against his chest.

"I love you, Alfred, I love you," he found himself whispering. "Don't you dare forget it."

Alfred shook his head against his shoulder before he leaned up to kiss him, mouth open and hot, and Arthur pressed into him fervently, fingers digging into his hair as they began to find their familiar rhythm of legs and arms and hips moving back and forth, not exactly gentle anymore but not terribly urgent either, steady and reliable and punctuated by kisses and groaned endearments until they were both finished and simply lay there for a moment, chests expanding and contracting against each other's as they recovered their breath.

Eventually, the bed shifted and Arthur realized that Alfred was sitting up, the shadows marking out the indistinct shape of his frame, still gleaming dully with sweat.

"And where do you think you're going?"

"Nowhere," said Alfred, pausing for a moment. "I just want to look over that draft one more time, then I'll be right back, I swear." And he actually made to stand up and lean down to search for his discarded pajamas.

"Alfred, no, don't be ridiculous," Arthur caught his hand and eventually succeeded in pulling him back down to the pillows, fixing him there with a stern look. "The papers can wait. Rome wasn't built in a day, you know."

Alfred gazed at him for a moment, then smiled faintly and kissed him on the forehead before he rolled over to the nightstand to put up his glasses; he returned and and pulled Arthur flush against his chest, resting his chin on the top of his head and drawing the sheets up around them. Arthur sighed and turned in his arms, placing a hand on his chest and shutting his eyes against his shoulder.

"Maybe not," he thought he heard Alfred murmur as they drifted into sleep. "But it fell in one."

* * *

><p><em>Nameless<em>

They took the train to Berlin early that morning because the trip from Arthur's estate in France (nobody except for Alfred and Francis knew that he was still in possession of the fine old house, which he had snatched up during the Revolution more of as a historical keepsake than a real living space at all, though Alfred thought it was terribly romantic and therefore often insisted that they stay there when they were expected at European meetings that weren't taking place in the United Kingdom) would take nearly the entire day, meaning that they would arrive just a few hours before the evening meeting began. The ride was uneventful, Alfred alternating between working and drowsing on Arthur's shoulder, Arthur between reading and running his hands absently through Alfred's hair, watching the countryside blur by outside their window.

The economic situation in Europe had finally stopped in its breathtaking plummet, meaning that their next project was to build up the stability of the continent again, starting with areas such as Italy and Greece and inching forwards with a reliance on Germany and France that was as heavy as it was met with reluctance from both sides. The United Kingdom itself was doing perfectly fine, the recent depression having been nothing compared to the bankruptcy they experienced after the Second World War, and the United States had enough troubles of its own without the added concern of the Euro Zone, but nevertheless Arthur and Alfred were both expected to be there in order to manage matters of international trade and loans. In fact, China, India, and a handful of Latin American countries were also expected, and for some of them, this would be their first economic meeting enjoyed as a significant power. Indeed, Arthur could feel the world order shifting beneath his feet, and he scarcely managed to maintain his balance; whether Alfred could stay standing or not, he wasn't sure.

They arrived at the hotel just as evening began to set in, putting away their luggage and changing into fresh suits scarcely in time to hurry down to the conference room, where they found the hallway already clogged with the other nations, voices raised in conversations and arguments as they collected outside the door, chattering and shouting and joking and making shameless passes at each other as per usual. Arthur caught sight of Elizaveta hovering near Roderich with her camera in hand, of Kiku murmuring in Heracles' ear with a concerned expression on his face, of Yao shrieking something at an inexpressive Ivan, of Antonio and Romano arguing violently off in a corner while Feliciano flapped around them, of Matthew looking anxious as he succeeded in his quest to blend into the wallpaper, and finally of Francis, leaning out of the door to the conference room and beckoning them all inside with a leer. Once the general chaos of the seating arrangement had settled, Arthur found himself positioned between Romano and Fernando (or Mexico, as most of the other nations still knew him), who had never attended one of these meetings as anyone of significance before and seemed rather discomfited when he wasn't trading glares with Alfred (who was wedged unhappily between Yao and Ivan) across the table.

Ludwig stepped up to the podium at the front of the room and called the meeting to order with his usual fist-banging and shouting, barking out an introduction before he stepped down to allow Francis to float into his place.

"Ah, _touts mes amis du monde, _what a joy it is to see you all here today," he sighed, twirling a strand of hair around his index finger. "What a shame that the subject is so dismal, _non?" _

Nobody gave even so much as a chuckle. Francis cleared his throat.

"_Bien, _I see we are not much in the mood for laughter at the moment. I suppose that is for the best, we shouldn't take this subject lightly, after all…" he furrowed his brow, rifling through a few papers on the surface of the podium. "Ah! _Oui, bien entendu_, I assume you all have brought your proposals. We'll start the presentations shortly; Germany and I will begin, then we'll go by the order I have written down here," he smiled. "Well, without further ado, let's fix this weary world of ours, _non?" _

Arthur heard Alfred give a little sigh and shift back in his seat; he glanced up to see that he was wearing an expression that seemed to say he was already bored. Romano was glaring at Antonio, who was evidently trying to communicate some sort of signal to him, and Fernando was anxiously rearranging his papers, pausing occasionally to push at the thick dark hair that fell across his forehead. A quiet spat – probably regarding that damn dispensable camera - broke out between Elizaveta and Roderich, though they hushed when Ludwig returned to the podium and began shouting his economic strategy across the room, words occasionally embellished by a little outbreak of frantic applause from Feliciano.

By the time Heracles had assumed the stage, delivering a quiet speech that was essentially just a string of apologies, Romano was doodling smiling tomatoes across his proposal, pressing down much too hard with his pen and smudging ink across the print, Fernando had returned to his staring contest with Alfred, Yao was leaning back in his chair and occasionally yawning, Francis was leering at a blushing Matthew, and even Arthur was scarcely clinging on to the monotonous lilt of Heracles' voice as he expressed how very, very sorry he was yet again before journeying slowly back to his seat.

They were silent for a moment before Ludwig jumped a little bit and coughed, hurrying up to the podium to thank Heracles and call for the next speaker: Alfred. Arthur shot him a brief nod as he lifted himself from his seat, tapping his stack of papers once or twice on the surface of the table before sauntering up to the front of the room, offering Ludwig a high-five and receiving nothing but a roll of the eyes for his trouble. Indeed, Arthur thought, sighing inwardly, Alfred definitely chose not to betray his developing maturity in public; it was quite the shame, really.

Alfred cleared his throat, grinning crookedly at them as he spread his papers across the podium. "Hey dudes," he straightened his glasses. "So things haven't been going to hot for us all, huh? Er, I guess not all," he winked. "Some of us are doing pretty well. But anyways, one problem is the whole world's problem, ain't it?"

He was met with skeptical glances and a flurry of whispers; Arthur shut his eyes for a moment, wishing fervently that they could all see the young man that was working himself to exhaustion, or that Alfred would let them see, that is. As it was, however, Alfred merely coughed once into his fist and charged forwards.

"Anyways, uh, so I guess America hasn't been so reliable lately -"

"Please, say _United States_," Arthur glanced at Fernando with a start, surprised to hear him pipe up so brashly. "You do not encompass the entire continent, you know, and some of us _Americans _are doing just fine."

Alfred's eyes narrowed for a moment before he smiled brilliantly – falsely, Arthur knew.

"Of course, my bad, bro. The _United States _hasn't been so reliable lately, and I'd like to start out by saying sorry, you guys, we totally didn't mean to. And uh, Yao, we'll have that money you need ASAP – for real this time," he gave a short laugh. "Anyways. On to foreign exports, I guess -"

A continuous whisper rippled across the table when Fernando raised his hand, chin lifted with a certain air of impudence; Alfred stopped, eyebrows raised, and pushed up his glasses again as if to check if he were really seeing correctly.

"Uh, yeah?"

A smirk eased its way across Fernando's face. "Tell me, _Estados Unidos, caro _Alfred_, _what are your intentions regarding _la_ _Maquiladora_?"

"The -" Alfred wrinkled his nose. "Oh. Well, to tell you the truth, man…we're not really interested. Actually," he kept his expression perfectly even, voice strained through his smile. "No one is. Yao's family has cheaper textiles and -"

Fernando chuckled. "Because your debt history with China has always been spotless."

Alfred was silent for a moment, mouth hanging slightly ajar before anger kindled in his eyes.

"Look, I'm sorry nobody wants what you've been churning out, but it's not exactly my fault that your people's work ethic isn't up to par."

One of the smaller Latin American countries – Guatemala, perhaps? Arthur didn't recognize him – started forwards in his seat, but Fernando cut him off, dark eyes narrowed.

"Funny, you didn't seem to complain when my people's work ethic was fixing your roofs and serving your fast food. What is it, Alfred?" his smirk deepened. "¿_Te molesta que yo me haya hecho más fuerte que tú?" _

_Does it bother you that I've become stronger than you? _

Arthur didn't know what Fernando had said, but he saw Antonio swallow heavily and Alfred's expression flash from shock to rage in a matter of seconds.

"_Pues," _Fernando continued, "_no te molestaría tanto un poco de la migra ya que nadie quiere ser un parte de tu país antiguo, ¿no es así?"_

_Well, a little immigration wouldn't bother you so much now that nobody wants to be a part of your antique country, would it? _

Alfred's mouth was set in a firm line; he spoke slowly but clearly, and Arthur desperately wished he could recall what he had once known of Spanish so that he could follow the conversation.

"_Era yo más fuerte que jamás se pudiera imaginar usted,_" muttered Alfred. "_No tenga celos por fa, no le queda bien." _

_I was stronger than you could ever imagine. Please don't be jealous, it doesn't suit you. _

Even Romano, with his marginal understanding of the Spanish language, was tense beside Arthur, eyes flitting between the two. Fernando let out a bark of laughter.

"Adorable," he murmured. "You really have the nerve, after having disappointed the entire world? To try to label me as _el que tiene los celos, ¡qué pena!_" he sighed, "just because you can't bring yourself to accept that you've fallen -"

Alfred opened his mouth, but suddenly Arthur was on his feet, bringing his fist down sharply on the table.

"Enough!" he cried, satisfied that the room fell silent. "Alfred – er, America – er, the United bloody States! has made plenty of mistakes and he's a regular fool sometimes, but you've hardly been an upstanding economist yourself! ¿_La corrupción?" _his tongue stumbled over the unfamiliar word but he was too angry to be deterred. "Don't you remember? Just because you've finally come into good fortune now hardly gives you the right to -"

Fernando rolled his eyes, pushing the hair from his forehead again.

"_Pues ya veo, entonces él necesita que su novia lo rescate. Qué tierno, de verdad se me calienta el corazón. __Todas las imperialistas caídas tienen que mantenerse unidos, supongo."_

Romano stifled a chuckle against the back of his hand, but Alfred let out a cry of outrage and actually lunged down from the podium, swinging wildly in Fernando's general direction as the other nations in his path scattered with cries of surprise. Antonio, being the first to understand what had actually happened aside from the other Latin American countries, was therefore the first in his way, shoving Fernando from his path and gripping Alfred by the arms, shouting _¡basta, basta, basta! _until he had calmed enough to snarl that nobody said anything about Arthur while he was still kicking, nobody!

Arthur asked a still-grinning Romano what Fernando had said, exactly.

_Oh, now I see, so he needs his girlfriend to come to his rescue. How sweet, really it warms my heart. All the fallen imperialists have to stick together, I suppose. _

Ah.

Well, that would explain Alfred's behavior. And though Arthur would be lying if he said he wasn't a tad bit irked by the comment himself, he was much more frustrated with Alfred at the moment: his worldwide reputation hadn't been particularly shining before, and after this particular display of brashness and temper, he couldn't imagine that countries would exactly be eagerly queuing up to get in on American exports. And as if this weren't enough, the whole fiasco was mostly Alfred's own fault for not taking the high road against the goading of a younger and less experienced nation in the first place, though admittedly he could perhaps have done without Arthur's sudden outburst. Nevertheless, after Francis and Ludwig had dismissed the meeting early and they had tiptoed from the chaos of the conference room, Arthur couldn't quite bring himself to scold Alfred, not when he saw the obvious contrition in his eyes and the new worry creasing his brow. No, instead he merely sighed, thumped him on the back, told him that everyone would forget about it in a couple of weeks (though they both knew they wouldn't), kissed him briefly in the hallway, and bundled him into the elevator, leaving him there on the pretense that he was going back to gather his things, though really he meant to apologize to Francis and Ludwig and perhaps preserve a shred of his pride. Alfred didn't put up much of a fight, just nodded rather dully and pressed the door-close button, and Arthur doubled back down the hallway to be surprised to find the conference room empty except for Francis, Ludwig, Feliciano and Matthew, who were talking quietly at one end of the table. He knocked tentatively and slipped inside when nobody protested.

"Ah, Arthur," Francis hurried over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder; Arthur shrugged him off and collapsed into an empty chair, bringing his hand to his temple exhaustedly.

"I'm so terribly sorry, everyone," he sighed. "I don't know what's gotten into him, or me, for that matter. It's just…he's been…and Mexico…I don't know. In any case, you have my deepest apologies."

Francis raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't Alfred be telling us this himself?"

Arthur blinked. "Well yes, I suppose, but he's rather out of sorts right now."

Francis sighed heavily.

"You are not his mother, Arthur."

Arthur gave Francis a very sharp look. "Oh, do elaborate."

"I mean…" Francis paused, shaking his head. "Arthur, how can you expect the boy to settle down when you're constantly cleaning up his messes for him? Yes, the last half century has been hard on us all, especially the United States, but if you continue to coddle him so, do you really believe he can ever come to terms with what he must become, is becoming? He still believes himself to be the hero," Francis' voice sunk. "How long are you going to let him labor under such a delusion?"

"But the delusion isn't mine to break!" Arthur caught himself and lowered his voice, massaging his temple with two fingers. "Besides, he already knows, he's just not quite…_aware _that he does. He's really just playing the fool now. To be honest, I'm worried about him…so much so that I can't even really scold him for this fiasco he's created."

Francis chuckled a trifle exasperatedly. "You really do love him unconditionally, don't you, _mon cher?_"

"I've never had a choice in the matter. Alfred is mine and I am his," Arthur sighed. "He irritates me to no end, as you know, so I can quite honestly say that I've never tried to love him. After all, I've never _had _to try; even when he's absolutely insufferable and I'm sure I can't stand him a moment longer, I love him," he snorted quietly at himself. "It's really a damn annoyance."

"Good thing he loves you too," said Feliciano, unexpectedly breaking from his hushed conversation with Ludwig. "More than a bit blindly."

Francis laughed appreciatively and Arthur couldn't help but crack a smile.

"I won't deny it. Especially during the Blitz, when I'd never looked worse," he waved his hand dismissively at Ludwig, "what's past is past. I didn't need the bloody empire anyways, it was just making me behave more like an asshole. Besides, once I learned to live with not being the biggest and the brightest, I got along just fine; in fact, I was better off because of it…which, incidentally, brings us back to Alfred's current state…" he trailed off, gazing fixedly at the surface of the table.

"It is only going to worsen, Arthur," murmured Francis, "until he can find a way to exist without having the world beneath his thumb."

"I know," muttered Arthur. "It frustrates me to see him bumbling around like this, picking fights like we're still in 1917 and he's scarcely got a taste of war. I just wish…" he sighed, pressing his forehead into the flat of his palm. "I want to do something to help him."

"Alfred just needs to define himself," someone whispered, and Arthur jumped, having nearly forgotten that Matthew was still hovering behind him. "He doesn't know how to exist without the most wealth and power because he doesn't know how to be if he can't call himself the hero," Matthew smiled sadly. "He's the thickest guy I know, so it'll probably take him an age to figure this out, but once he does, he'll be alright."

"_Bien dit, cher Mathieu," _crooned Francis, running his hand along the back of Matthew's neck even as he turned to speak quite seriously to Arthur. "Please, _mon cher, _consider this: Paris has been around for many years and has seen many things – beauty, decadence, fame and infamy, blood - especially regarding the arrival of the notorious woman known as _La Guillotine. _All these are embedded, never to be forgotten, in her streets, her river, her people, the very foundations on which she stands," he sighed. "This applies to London, to Berlin, to Rome, in fact, it rings true for every city in Europe. Tell me, Arthur, what has New York or Washington or Chicago seen that compares?"

Arthur gazed at him warily, trying to determine his intentions.

"Well…I suppose, to be honest…in comparison, nothing."

"And there, your explanation. Power comes and goes," murmured Francis. "But little can shake what is ancient. Europe may not always know such passing things as wealth or strength, but she will always know culture and people; those are the two foundations on which she is built, and the two foundations which will never crumble, come what may. Americans have long since forgotten their European heritage, indeed, they are their own selves now…but still they exist without definition. Perhaps when this fault is remedied, the United States, and Alfred, will find peace."

Arthur stared at him for a moment, then let out an incredulous chuckle.

"I…I can't believe it, Francis, but…but I think you're right. I…well…may I tell Alfred what you've told me?" he refused to meet Francis' indubitably smug gaze, instead staring very determinedly at his own hands. "I think it would help him."

"_Bien entendu, mon ami,_" the smirk dripped into Francis' voice.

"Ugh, your language is disgusting," muttered Arthur, standing up and shoving his chair back into place. "Anyways, thank you as well, Matthew, and again, to all of you, my apologies for what happened during the meeting."

Ludwig waved his hand dismissively as Arthur headed towards the door.

"Don't worry about it," he muttered as he slipped away, "we weren't getting anywhere anyways."

* * *

><p><em>Searcher<em>

Alfred was in the shower when Arthur got back to the hotel room; he could hear the rush of the water from the bathroom and busied himself with organizing their luggage and changing out of his own suit, which had long since begun to seem far too stiff. Alfred reemerged eventually, one towel wrapped around his waist while he dried his hair with another, skin flushed from the hot water. He glanced up for a moment, rifled around in his suitcase until he found a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt, pulled them on, and flopped heavily onto the bed, dragging Arthur down with him and burying his face in the crook of his shoulder with a low groan.

"Oh, love," Arthur sighed, pressing his lips into his still-damp hair, smelling his shampoo. "You have quite the penchant for making a fool of yourself."

Alfred groaned again, wrapping his arms tight around Arthur and pulling him closer. Arthur allowed the silence to last for as long as was necessary, knowing that Alfred was nothing if not a conversationalist and would speak when he felt the need.

"You're not going to shout at me?" asked Alfred eventually, voice sounding very small.

"I ought to," answered Arthur tartly, "you cause me nothing but trouble. But mostly, Alfred," he paused, lifting himself up from the pillows so that he could hold Alfred at arm's length. "I…I'm worried about you. You haven't been yourself lately, don't try to deny it, and I don't like it, not in the least."

Alfred returned his gaze for a moment, then screwed his eyes shut and sighed.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry," his eyes slit open again and he glanced at Arthur hesitantly. "When…Arthur…when…when your empire fell…what was it…was it…I mean…"

"It certainly wasn't any fun, Alfred," murmured Arthur. "Of that I can assure you. I don't remember too many specific details because I was more of focused on the war and rationing and not getting blown to pieces, but…definitely no fun, I'm afraid," he paused, slipping a finger beneath Alfred's chin to turn his face up. "And yet, I feel I'm immensely better off because of it, wouldn't you agree?"

Alfred nodded eventually. "You were an asshole before and you didn't like me very much and I didn't like you very much either."

"I didn't like you," Arthur agreed, but clicked his tongue chidingly. "But I did love you."

"Easy for you say that now," mumbled Alfred with little smile before his expression turned serious again. "I just…I don't know, Arthur. And it's not just this meeting that has me so stressed out," he began to trace wide circles across Arthur's chest with his index finger. "I have this big speech to write too, and I don't know what to say."

"A speech? For whom?"

Alfred's voice sunk to a whisper. "My people," his mouth straightened into a thin line. "Arthur, there was a time when they all loved me just for existing, just because they were Americans and they loved their country through thick and thin, through depressions and wars and elections, no matter what, they loved me. I don't know why…" his voice caught and he refused to meet Arthur's gaze. "I don't know why my superiors think that's still the case, but…they do, and they want me to rile…rile_ patriotism_ again, of all things, remind my people why America is the greatest country ever and how…how can I do that when they don't care about me or even know who I am anymore?" he let out a small huff of frustration, burying his face in Arthur's shoulder again. "I don't know what to tell them anyways."

Arthur felt his heart stutter in empathy, and he leaned down to press his lips to the top of Alfred's head.

"The way I see it, love," he murmured against his hair. "There's only one thing to say."

Alfred stiffened and lifted his face from the crook of his shoulder curiously, an almost wary expression in his eyes.

"And what's that?"

Arthur smiled softly, reaching up to touch his hand to Alfred's cheek.

"Tell them who they are," he said, "once you've remembered it yourself, that is."

* * *

><p>Thanks so much for reading; next week, Alfred's quest for identity begins!<p>

**ANs galore: **(eek sorry, they're for the historical and linguistic references)

"**Please, say **_**United States**_**": **Latin Americans get either confused or really pissed off when dumbass gringos refer to themselves as _Americans, _because they would like to argue that they live on the continent of _America _as well. For instance, if you refer to the _American _Revolution in a Latin _American_ country, you will receive nothing but quizzical looks because the _continent_ of America had _lots _of different revolutions. I have learnt this the hard way, orz.

_**La **__**Maquiladora **_is a collection of (mostly) textile factories that cluster in cities along the Mexican-US border. They used to be really bustling because they sold the cheapest goods, but then the Asian countries started getting in on the industry and nobody wanted to buy their stuff anymore and they were like well shit this sucks. Anyone taken AP Human Geography? AW YIS.

_**La corrupción **_means, guess what, _corruption, _and in mentioning it Arthur is referring to Mexico's incredibly unequal distribution of wealth (which is a thing of the past in this fic's universe), which is due mostly to corrupt politicians taking it all the government money for themselves which means poverty for everybody else OTL.

Need I explain the animosity between Alfred and Fernando? (God I keep wincing at his name pfft.)

Alfred facetiously speaks to Fernando (ARGH THAT NAME) using the formal _usted (sir, ma'am, etc), _which would usually denote respect. Alfred can speak and understand Spanish because of immigration, of course. As an aside, in my headcanon, Arthur remembers a bit from the Spanish armada, but not enough to carry on or understand an actual conversation.

_**La Guillotine **_was the infamous weapon of the French Revolution; when I liken it to a woman I am copying Charles Dickens, who is a boss. Uh…yeah, if anyone was around for _Keep Dreaming, America, _they probably recognize that whole spiel as the part that I pretty much cut and pasted…and remember a similar AN rambling on about _A Tale of Two Cities…_ahaha…

**Translations: **_El que tiene los celos, ¡qué pena!_ = the one who is jealous, what a shame!

_Bien dit, bien entendu = _well said, of course

_¡Basta, basta, basta! = _enough, enough, enough!

**Thanks again for reading,** and reviews are always appreciated. ^^

Until the next chapter!


	2. So Far

I'm convinced this chapter didn't want me to write it. Really. Argh, this fic, it will be the death of me…

Well anyways, a thousand thanks to all readers, reviewers, story-alerters, favoriters, etc. You guys are incomparably lovely and make everything totally worth it. ^^

Also, look at how not-mile-long this chapter is! I'm shocked, too. So to make up for it there's a lot of history and an obscene amount of my headcanon in here, haha. (Not to mention some weird extended metaphors. Emphasis on the _extended, _lololol. Prepare yourselves.)

**Flashbacks are in _italics, _moments in the actual timeline are not.**

I hope you enjoy.

* * *

><p><em>Golden Boy<em>

_Alfred was an allegory, complete with eyes that were the sky bluer than any before imagined, hair the fields more vast and golden, richer and riper, arms and legs the gentle coastlines melting into thick forest and finally open prairie, breath the soft wind that blew whispers of promise from the west, skin the dark sod and ruddy clay and spongy peat that preserved the footprints of moccasins, voice giving life to the rinds of fruits and vegetables and the gleaming dark eyes of animals that hadn't yet been named by European tongues. All of this together composed the little boy that hid his face and peered at them from between blades of grass, like a cherub with his fat rosy cheeks and pure white gown (as if he were a new-Christened baby) swirling around his ankles, feet stumbling over one another and expression betraying traces of them all, or so they had thought as they bent down to examine him and eagerly claim France in the blue of his eyes, England in the gold of his hair, Italy in his name, Spain in his west and Germany in his east, indeed all of Europe mingling together in the tan of his skin and the curve of his mouth and the clear peal of his laugh, never thinking that they had truly fallen upon a New World because they were only able to comprehend what they had found by labeling the unfamiliar creature in familiar ways. _

_And they all wanted him to bear their name, of course, so they courted him and handled him like a golden treasure that just happened to be able to walk and talk and move and think. He had to be golden, though, Francis would point out sardonically to Arthur every once in a while, if he was to be their trophy of the highest order, had he not? And though Arthur scoffed and pretended not to hear him and ended up with the prize in his arms anyways, he had indeed thought the same, and would think the same many times over again until Alfred taught him not to. _

"_England, who called these lands America?" _

_Arthur glanced down in surprise, shifting Alfred more closely into the circle of his arms. _

"_Well, love," he murmured, "why do you want to know?" _

_Alfred's brow knit and he dug one fist into the fine embroidered fabric of Arthur's shirtfront. _

"_Because…" he paused, biting down on his lower lip, seeming frustrated by the question. "England, was it you, or somebody else?" _

_Arthur pressed his lips into Alfred's hair to hide his smile. "It's quite a complicated story, but I suppose in a rather backhanded way, one could say it was Italy." _

_After taking this in, Alfred was silent for a long moment, seeming to consider something. _

"_But England," he said eventually, gazing upwards with blue eyes wide and worried. "I thought you were the first to arrive in my lands."_

"Our _lands, Alfred," Arthur correctly sharply. "Yours and mine and the British Empire's, and so they will forever be." He pressed another kiss to Alfred's forehead to soften the words, though he fully expected them to be minded. "And though I'm afraid I wasn't the first to arrive to see you, Alfred," he paused, smiling down at the little boy burrowed in his arms, running a hand tenderly through his hair. "I was the first to love you." _

"No, I can't shake the feeling that you're making fun of me," Alfred didn't glance up from buttering his toast, and Arthur sighed, violently bursting the yolk of his egg across the plate.

"Just because _your _culture has made some ridiculous superlative out of it doesn't mean it's not an entirely legitimate descriptor," he retorted, viciously grabbing the pepper shaker. "Give it some consideration, won't you?"

"Golden boy?" Alfred wrinkled his nose, biting into his toast. "I just don't see it."

"I might point out that you also didn't see yourself when you were little," Arthur sighed, picking up his knife and beginning to divide his egg into neat sections. "You positively glowed."

Alfred pouted. "Are you saying I don't now?"

Arthur shot him a withering look from around his fork. "Why else would we be having this conversation?"

"Right, right," grinned Alfred, taking another bite of his toast and letting the silence between them stretch on for a few moments before he swallowed and started up again. "Really? _Golden boy? _It sounds like something straight out of a high school yearbook."

"I daresay that's the point, Alfred," Arthur dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "It fits right in alongside varsity football and senior class proms and all other sorts of entirely_ American_ notions."

Alfred rested his cheek in the palm of his hand, having moved on to mowing through his healthy portion of bacon.

"I dunno, I don't think anyone would find it very encouraging," he said around a mouthful, "especially when we're all looking a little tarnished."

Arthur snorted, though the words had rung uncomfortably true.

"Why, Alfred, I had no idea you were capable of carrying on an extended metaphor."

"Shut the fuck up."

Arthur cracked a small smile and kicked Alfred gently beneath the table, grin deepening when Alfred glared and attempted to return the favor only to stub his toe rather sharply against one of the legs of the table; his face turned red and he cursed thickly under his breath, leaning down to nurse his injury.

"That's what you get for being vindictive," smirked Arthur, taking a satisfied bite from his egg. Alfred stuck his tongue out at him and returned to an upright position, straightening his tie and picking up his fork to attack his hash browns.

"You're just upset because you know I was right," he muttered. "Your stupid _golden boy _idea would never work."

Arthur shrugged and added a dollop of cream to his tea, watching the light brown color bloom beneath the surface before he stirred, the edge of his spoon clinking against the china.

"Maybe so, but it was worth a shot," he let a wistful edge color his voice for a moment just to be difficult. "You were so terribly cute…"

"Please," snorted Alfred, "learn to keep your foot out of the leg of my slacks and maybe then you'll sound more convincing."

Arthur glared, hissing that he was doing no such thing and feeling a blush come to life beneath his collar; Elizaveta had been walking by on her way to the coffee dispenser at that very moment and actually did a double take, her eyes lighting up dangerously. Alfred merely stifled a laugh against the back of his hand and gave her a jaunty little salute.

"Mornin' Liza!" he grinned. "I'll warn you right now that the coffee here sucks major balls."

Elizaveta's eyebrows rocketed up before she registered the context of the sentence and seemed to physically deflate.

"Sure," she mumbled, staring dejectedly into her empty cup. "Thanks for the tip."

"Anytime," called Alfred, beaming as she walked away before he turned back to Arthur with a snicker, rolling his eyes when he was met with an unimpressed frown.

"Hey, can you believe this?" Alfred gestured to his plate in an attempt to change the subject. "Even Germany's got a full-on continental American breakfast. Fallen power my ass," he smirked, puncturing a sausage link with one prong of his fork and waggling his brows suggestively. "Seems like you guys still can't quite get enough of us."

In all likelihood, Alfred had merely meant to be crude, but Arthur felt his throat tighten; he glanced almost guiltily into his tea, running his spoon along the bottom of the cup with a dull scraping noise. Alfred quickly tuned into his sudden shift in mood and leaned forwards curiously, eyes mirroring the color of the china of Arthur's saucer.

"Hey, you all right, Artie?"

Arthur swallowed and gave a small smile, dropping his spoon and covering Alfred's hand with his own.

"Certainly, I'm just fine. It's only…well, you were joking, I suppose, probably trying to embarrass me…but nevertheless, what you said was…well, it was rather true," he paused, glancing down at the tablecloth. "Back in the day, we really couldn't get enough, always fighting over you and such," he turned his gaze absently to Alfred's fingers, running his pinky unconsciously along the ridge of his knuckles. "You were something of a prize, to be honest, so we didn't really stop to…to consider that you might be anything like us. Er, this is rather a few centuries too late, but…sorry about that. I suppose we didn't know any better."

Alfred surveyed him for a moment, then chuckled and leaned back in his seat.

"Shucks, it's alright, seeing as I've already paid you back for it, after all. Getting to see you crying in the rain like a girl…" a wicked smirk carved its way up his face. "Well, that was plenty enough compensation for me."

Arthur glared, both upset and relieved that the pensive moment had been ruined, and let go of Alfred's hand to take a controlled sip of his tea.

"Oh, what a relief _that _is to hear," he muttered dryly around the rim of his cup, and Alfred's smile deepened, growing more sincere and bending up to crinkle the corners of his eyes, lending a soft edge to his expression that brought a trace of heat to the tips of Arthur's ears despite himself.

"Well, Arthur," he said affectionately, leaning forwards on the ball of his elbow and nudging Arthur's foot gently beneath the table. "It's when you're being honest that I love you the most."

Arthur felt himself blush and coughed, staring determinedly into his tea.

"If that's the case," he muttered, refusing to meet Alfred's doubtlessly smug gaze. "You must be positively beside yourself with adoration when I'm drunk."

* * *

><p><em>Rebel<em>

_Of course he had grown; that was only natural, in fact, it was entirely encouraging, Arthur considered, and he really oughtn't to be surprised by it in the least. After all, Alfred was a healthy boy with an expanding economy and industry and a fresh culture that grew like a patchwork quilt, every edge eventually coming together to be clipped and seamed and hemmed by clumsy hands with fingers that still stumbled over the needle and thread but nonetheless managed to string together an elaborate and tentatively beautiful tapestry, one that Arthur was very proud to hang on the wall behind his office desk and call his own. _

_His own, he would make very sure to point out, because although Alfred might've developed his own personality, might've learnt a few things about the world that Arthur hadn't meant him to, he was still a possession,_ _still something which belonged to the British Empire, still obliged to heed and love them despite the extra loops of muscle straining against the sleeves of his dust-stained shirts, despite the newly-square line of his jaw, despite his gradually strengthening voice._

_Was he not? _

"_Surely you realize we don't have the time for decisions." _

_From his position at the doorframe Arthur saw the muscles in Alfred's back tense, imagined the crease between his brows, envisioned how he would gnaw on his lower lip as he always did when he was upset, perceived the anxiety in his voice as he repeated that he wasn't sure, he wasn't sure, he just couldn't choose right then. _

"_But America," repeated one of the other men levelly, the irregular tap of his index finger on the surface of the table betraying his frustration. "Don't you understand this opportunity? We could realize all we dream of if only it weren't for…" he trailed off with a heavy sigh. "Look, my boy, I know you love him like a father, but surely even that cannot keep you from seeing…imagine what we could be if he weren't…" he stopped again; Arthur caught a glimpse of him bringing a hand up to massage his temple. _

"_Adams, if you would be so kind as to continue in my place, please," the man murmured, evidently without the courage to go on. Alfred's shoulders were still tensed, as if he were expecting a blow. _

"_Mr. Franklin doesn't want to tell you because he wants to protect your feelings," began another man, presumably Adams, whoever that was; Arthur couldn't make out his expression due to the shadows cast by the lamplight. "But I believe that it is necessary…" Adams paused, probably swallowing or fidgeting with his collar or something along those lines, "that you understand that the England whom you knew and loved, whom we all knew and loved…has left. I know that in your heart of hearts you understand that his love for you, for us, for all that we stand for, has been forgotten, completely and irrevocably replaced by greed. He is not your father anymore, and even if he were," a long pause, "it would still be high time you grew up."_

_Silence fell over the room for a moment, and at the peak of the suspense Arthur could make out the strong line of the span of Alfred's broad and still broadening shoulders, the fitful movement of his fingers as he fiddled with the edge of one of the maps that were spread across the table, felt almost as if he could see the come and go of the other men's breathing, as if the shadows cast by the candles expanded and contracted in rhythm with their old and patient lungs that itched to wheeze the first notes of revolution. _

"_I'm sorry," said Alfred finally, shattering the tension with the dull blow of his voice. "But I still need more time. Wait, please, even if for only three or four days more, then I'll…I'll…" his words grew strangely constricted, and the thought struck Arthur that he might be choking up. _

"_Anyways, thank you," Alfred's voice quivered, confirming Arthur's suspicions, "goodbye," and with that he turned on his heel and Arthur had to plaster himself against the far wall to avoid being caught, scarcely missing collision as Alfred bolted from the room, one arm held in front of his face to hide his tears. As Arthur watched his back disappear, he was abruptly seized by a desperate impulse to reach out and touch his shoulder, to stop him, hold him and whisper his pain away as if he could still fit comfortably in the circle of his arms, but the little golden child was grown now, wasn't it? and so Arthur merely sank down against the wall and rested his head in his hands because the revolutionaries were right, he could no longer be a father, could no longer betray any part of him that might be soft and malleable. He was only allowed to be cold and insatiable, to act the face of the brilliant and cruel empire he was fast becoming._

_Alfred had cried because he understood this. Because he understood this, Arthur closed his eyes for a moment before he opened them again and remembered that all was for the sake of grandeur. _

"Rebel? Don't be ridiculous; that was nearly three centuries ago. That's not who I am anymore."

"Isn't it, though?" Arthur glanced back over his shoulder at Alfred as they stepped into the elevator, quirking a brow, "seems to me that you've always been rebelling against something."

"Bah," Alfred snorted, making his one stubborn forelock bob wildly for a moment. "You're just bitter."

"Oh yes," murmured Arthur drolly, "Alfred, if it's not too much trouble, do refresh my memory: in your civil war, the South called themselves the…?"

Alfred considered this for a moment before he rolled his eyes. "That's totally different."

Arthur chuckled. "Of course it is. And in establishing and maintaining a democracy, you weren't rebelling against the rest of the world? Not in theoretically offering freedom to whomever asked? Not in all those damn inventions you used to waste your time with? Not in opening your borders and making yourself the melting pot yet shutting yourself away from international politics until they came to you?"

Alfred glared and Arthur couldn't help but to smile warmly at him as the elevator doors chimed gently open and they stepped out in the hallway.

"Don't make that face, love," he murmured, checking to make sure they were alone before he reached out to pat Alfred's cheek, perhaps a little patronizingly. "You've always made sure to point out how different you are from the rest of the world, especially when it comes to us Europeans. I for one would most definitely say that's pretty rebellious, but I'd also say that it's what made you special, what let you be such a great country in the first place," he frowned, warningly wagging his finger at Alfred as he brightened and began to puff up his chest, "though we mustn't forget those massive natural resources and impeccable upbringing, courtesy of yours truly, of course," he smirked as Alfred's smile crumpled. "You wouldn't have gotten very far without those, I must say."

"You're mean," muttered Alfred, wrinkling his nose. Arthur chuckled and patted his shoulder affectionately.

"Yes, well, what else is new, eh?" his smile sobered, "you thought the same thing when you first had to come out of that _rebellious _little shell of yours and interact with the rest of the world."

"Well, some things never change," but Alfred punched him softly on the arm with nothing more than a soft smile, evidently having picked up on the change in Arthur's mood.

"No, I suppose not," Arthur sighed, grudgingly accepting the little kiss Alfred placed on his cheek as they parted ways to attend their individual economic sessions, pausing to watch him go despite himself, lingering for a moment even after he had disappeared from view.

"And I suppose," he murmured to himself, "we should all be grateful."

* * *

><p><em>Soldier<em>

_War was a song. _

_Arthur had learnt many things over the years, but this stuck in his mind as one of the most poignant. It would always start the same way: the first conductor would signal to the other with a single fluid motion of his arm, then the overture would begin, soft with slurred discussions and debates, with the brassy chords of new alliances, with the rumbling base of the voices of new troops raised in excitement, building and building to be broken by the first distinct note, the shattering peal of the lonely gunshot, suspending silence over the audience for an instant before the rain of gunfire began, sharp and brilliant like shards of glass, twinkling down to their ears and becoming embedded in their skin as a new melody surged into action, the gleaming tones born of splashes of blood and the thud of feet against frozen earth, then the terrible chorus of groans and shouts that led to the abrupt fortissimo of the cry of victory, the grand finale! because now that they were covered in blood and filth with joy written on their faces and shame in their hearts, they could return home and rest, at least until they grew bored again and it was time to begin the symphony anew, return to hear the first sweet notes, the rhythm of Europe…_

_But this time something was different, the symphony was changed, there was an irregularity in the beat that was almost undetectable but nonetheless could perhaps explain why Arthur was crouching in a trench, covered in mud with his gun rested on his shoulder, trembling lightly with the shivers that coursed up his body as he listened to the gunfire above his head slow and gradually ease to a stop, giving way to silence that scarcely lasted a moment before being followed by the underscore of groans, the fitful compositions of the wounded, the perhaps-soon-to-be-dead._

_How long had they been fighting? Arthur couldn't say; with their familiar metronome gone, he couldn't keep track of the days and weeks and months, only understanding that things had come to a stalemate and that nobody moved and that people continued to die and die and die, sometimes on the battlefield, sometimes later in the trenches, mixing blood with the filth and the frost, leaving their private scar on the already-ravaged face of Europe._

_This war was different. This war was not tactical and graceful and regal, this war was not a show, not a contest. It was far too desperate, there was too much at stake, and most importantly, there was no power left on the continent to move anything in any direction. They were tired and exhausted and exasperated and dying and there was nobody in Europe who could do anything to help it. _

_In Europe…_

_Arthur could not stop himself from thinking it. _

_A power slept across the Atlantic ocean, quite selfishly (or so he would sometimes consider) keeping itself aloof from their affairs as if it were somehow superior to them all, the nerve! turning up its nose to the plights of the very cultures from which it had been born as if it were somehow their fault that they had been brought up bloodthirsty and easily bored. Indeed, Alfred preferred to keep to himself and piddle his time away tinkering with his little toys and calling them inventions, scrabbling in the dust for nuggets of gold no bigger than tooth fillings, sketching grandiose maps and proposals built on the unsteady dreams of ambitious children, instead of involving himself with the affairs of Europe, tainting himself with their greed and restlessness despite the fact that he had been raised at the hands of the greediest and most restless of them all. _

_Things between England and the United States of America were neither bad nor good. Alfred and Arthur could speak with one another politely at international events, carry on the strictly formal written correspondence required of them by their governments, and had only gotten into two fights over the last half-century (both being primarily owed to Arthur's given state of intoxication). Their nations traded for the sake of economy and they spoke to each other when necessary, but an alliance was still obviously out of the question – evidently, cordiality was not enough to draw the United States into the war. _

_So when a soldier called for Arthur and led him from the trenches, skirting the edges of the battlefield to bring him to the base of a small hill, when he began to hear a dull roar in the background, the kind which could only belong to an enormous number of men, when they crested the lip of the hill and gazed down at the sea of unfamiliar uniforms that seemed to fill the entire countryside, he couldn't bring himself to really believe it, not even when Alfred came bounding towards him from amidst the other soldiers and grabbed him in a bone-crushing hug, pressing against his bruised ribs and making him curse in pain._

"_Fuck, you idiot," he managed to kick Alfred sharply in the shin and was promptly deposited back on the ground. "That bleeding hurt, you know!" _

_Alfred grinned toothily at him, though he was still massaging his leg. His cheeks were flushed with excitement and his eyes gleamed; he had perched his jaunty little military cap lopsidedly atop his honey-colored hair, just so that his persistent cowlick bobbed merrily in the breeze, catching the sunlight every now and again. Altogether, he was very tall, very handsome, and obviously in very good health, well-fed and strong and still untouched by the horrors of war, and Arthur couldn't help but feel a prickle of resentment. _

"_Shucks, England," Alfred was chuckling. "Nice to see you, too." _

_Arthur glared, gingerly bringing a hand to his ribs to assess the damage; when he couldn't suppress a wince, Alfred straightened and took a step towards him, looking concerned. He didn't speak for a minute, eyes sweeping over Arthur's body, presumably taking in the filth and the bloodstains that turned his uniform into a collage, the countless tears in his shirt and trousers (clumsily repaired in some places, simply hanging open in others), the smudges of gunpowder on his face and fingertips, his resilient but dulled expression, the dark circles running below his eyes and the gauntness of his cheekbones. _

"_England…" he reached out as if to touch him but stopped, biting down on his lower lip. "Are you - "_

"_I'm just fine, America," Arthur snapped. "Just fine. And I'll be better soon," he glanced at him warily, "provided you're here to stay, that is. It absolutely kills me to tell you this but…" he paused, sighing and bringing a hand to his forehead. "We could really use your help."_

_Alfred blinked, then grinned incredulously, reaching out to thump Arthur on the shoulder before he hesitated, glancing at him as if for permission. _

"_Jesus Christ, I'm not a china doll," Arthur hissed, and Alfred rolled his eyes but gripped his shoulder firmly._

"_Yeah, England," he chuckled. "We're here to stay."_

* * *

><p><em>The Americans were certainly an interesting addition to the trenches, filling them fit to burst with their talk and laughter and crass humor, which was more often than not directed at England or France or some other unfortunate European nationality. Alfred was particularly enthusiastic, talking more loudly and obnoxiously than ever and occasionally letting forth a peal of laughter that seemed to shake the very ground, and it wasn't long before Arthur began to suspect that this behavior could perhaps betray that the poor boy was very, very nervous, practically shaking in his boots and hoping to cover up the chatter of his teeth with the deafening sound of his voice. <em>

_His suspicions were confirmed when they awoke to the cries of gunfire and Alfred could scarcely load his gun because his hands were trembling so badly. Arthur had to slam him hard against the other side of the trench more than once as little volleys of bullets sped past, and when he would leap into action immediately after, firing and firing and firing until his hands ached and his ears were numbed from the sound, Alfred would stare at him vacantly, fright and confusion the only expressions he seemed capable of wearing. _

_Eventually, the first attack ceased; Arthur set down his gun and Alfred set his head in his hands. Arthur wanted to spit at him, to shake him and shake him over and over, to slap him, to comfort him, but there were more important matters to be dealt with so he merely left him sitting there hunched over himself. When he had finished counting the dead and dealing with the wounded and making sure they still had enough ammo and water, he returned to find Alfred staring blankly at his own feet, drawing circles in the mud with his index finger. _

"_America." _

_Nothing. Alfred didn't even glance at him. _

"_America." _

_Still nothing. _

"_America!" _

_Nothing, he was still drawing circles in the dirt. Arthur seized forwards and grabbed him by his collar, yanking him up so that their foreheads nearly banged together. _

"_Alfred F. Jones! Might I ask who the bloody hell you think you are?" he shook him once, twice, jarring them both. "Your men fought bravely today, your men _died _today, and here you stand, without having fired even a single shot, wallowing in unearned self-pity and making sodding drawings in the mud!" Still gripping Alfred by his collar, Arthur started up over the trenches, picking his way across the barbed wire, managing to drag his still-lifeless cargo along with the ferocious strength his rage had lent him. Once they were up and over, he stood up and turned Alfred around, gripping him firmly by his shoulders so that he couldn't run. _

"_Look," he spat. "This is who we are, America. This is where you come from." _

_Alfred was still for a moment, then his shoulders tensed beneath Arthur's fingers, then he swallowed, took a shuddering breath, and sank to his knees, fingers digging deep into the muddy grass. Arthur snorted and followed his gaze out across the field, the expanse of land they called no-man's because it really belonged to the dead, gazing at the blood and the broken bodies not without sadness and regret, but also with a very practiced neutrality, for if he valued every soldier as he ought war would render him nothing but a wreck and therefore entirely useless to his country. _

_But Alfred seized with sobs, he trembled and cried and gripped the ground as if to hold himself there. Arthur watched him coldly, refusing to allow himself even the faintest whisper of pity or sympathy because the fool deserved none. _

"_Oh, get up," he hissed after a while, nudging Alfred with the tip of his boot. "Get up, I say!" _

_Surprisingly, Alfred did just that, though he still hiccupped and rubbed at his eyes like a small child. Arthur snorted in disgust, but he thought he saw a similar revulsion reflected in Alfred's red-rimmed gaze, and despite his distaste, he couldn't help but to feel a little slighted because he knew Alfred wept for Europe, for the bloodthirsty nature of her people, for _him.

_Their arrival was a fresh chord, their laughter and banter a bright new melody, their shock and gunfire and disgust a startling crescendo, their tears the accompanying decrescendo beginning at the grand scarlet fortissimo and trickling back down to the pitiful grey pianissimo; war was a song, and America was the new key that would forever alter the symphony of Europe._

* * *

><p><em>So Far<em>

Alfred had insisted that they go out to dinner to refresh themselves after the day of tedious meetings, and they had ended up running into Francis and Matthew in the restaurant; on Francis' suggestion, they had all gone out for drinks after the meal, meaning that more than a few rounds later Arthur could scarcely navigate through the hotel and was primarily dependent on Alfred's forearm for assistance into the elevator.

"You really shouldn't take Francis up on those drinking bets," muttered Alfred disapprovingly, hooking Arthur's arm more comfortably around his shoulders. "You're perfectly capable of getting drunk enough without them."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I can hardly let that frog…think that he can hold his liquor better…" he paused for a moment, "and I'm not…_that_ drunk."

He felt Alfred chuckle beneath him. "Well, there _have_ been times where you could barely form a sentence, let alone a coherent one."

"See?" Arthur grinned, or perhaps leered – he wasn't quite sure (he was sure, however, that Alfred was looking very handsome in the soft light of the elevator, despite his rumpled suit and the smudges on the frames of his glasses). "Not _that _drunk."

"Whatever you say, Artie," the elevator doors chimed open and Alfred made to step out; Arthur let out a little cry of annoyance and grabbed blindly for his tie, stretching up to kiss him and balancing his hands on his shoulders both to prevent his escape and to keep himself from teetering. Alfred made a little surprised noise against his mouth, glanced out at the empty hallway, kissed him back resignedly for a short moment, then broke away and dragged Arthur through the elevator door.

"Christ, Arthur," he muttered as he hurried to their room lest Arthur should attack him again. "Alcohol really makes you a changed man."

"Yes, yes," Arthur plucked halfheartedly at Alfred's sleeve. "For the better, I'd say."

Alfred sighed, but smiled affectionately. "I don't know about that," he murmured, finally getting the door to their room open and pulling Arthur inside, sweeping him into his arms and shutting the door behind them with the back of his foot. "I like you either way. _Any _way."

"Shut up," muttered Arthur, and kissed Alfred to make his point, satisfied that he kissed back softly but enthusiastically, pressing his palms into the small of his back until Arthur's hands wandered from the nape of his neck to his tie, beginning to work clumsily at the already-loosened knot. Alfred chuckled and pulled away for a moment to slip from his jacket.

"Hey, Arthur," he said almost conversationally as he reached for Arthur's own tie, "what about _soldier_?"

"Soldier?" Arthur blinked at him confusedly, rolling his shoulders back to let him slip off his suit jacket. "I don't understand what you mean."

"To describe America, remember?" Alfred took his hand and led him over to the bed, gently pressing the small of his back into the mattress and starting in on the buttons of his dress shirt. "Do you think _soldier_ would work?"

Arthur gazed at him for a moment, then laughed, pulling Alfred down to hug him in a sudden fit of affection.

"Please, love, even I'm not so drunk that I would agree with that idea. It makes you sound like some sort of enraged Texan or…or…"

"Hey," said Alfred sharply, straightening his glasses. "Don't mess with Texas."

Arthur chuckled and took the glasses off, folding them up and setting them on the bedside table. "I wouldn't dream of it, dear. But really, Alfred, _soldier_? Sure, you start a lot of wars…a _lot _of wars…no offense, but as of late you've been giving us Europeans a run for our money…but you're not really a _warmonger_. You're just a silly boy, a dreamer, in a world that's too hard…" Arthur found himself wanting to add something ridiculous like _for your beauty _but couldn't quite bring himself to admit such thoughts aloud, "…well you have to grow up, anyways," he ended up muttering. "Life isn't fair."

Alfred sighed. "Guess we gotta keep thinking."

"Mm, we still have a little time," Arthur patted his cheek comfortingly. "When do you have to give this bloody speech, anyways?"

"In about a week, give or take…" he felt Alfred sigh against him and wished he could see his face.

"Well, don't worry yourself too much about it," he murmured. "You have enough on your mind as it is. Now, come on," he ran his hands down Alfred's back, satisfied to feel him shiver at the touch. "Let's talk about something else, yeah?"

Alfred propped himself up on his elbows with a smirk. "If you want to call it talking…"

Arthur swatted him on the shoulder, turning up his nose and pretending to be offended. "So crass! You ought to be ashamed of yourself," but nonetheless he started in on Alfred's buttons, gradually working them open with stumbling fingers, "really, must I always have to keep such a close watch on your behavior?"

Alfred grinned and kissed him on the forehead. "Course, Artie," he mumbled jokingly against his skin, but then pulled back and gave Arthur such a serious look, so heavy with affection and gratitude and love, that Arthur's heart lurched and he had to look away. "I can't imagine where I'd be without you."

* * *

><p>Oh, sappy sap sap; sorry, I love them so much I just can't even…<p>

Speaking of, has anyone else been following the Hetaween event? DID YOU SEE THE CANON USUK BATMAN AND ROBIN THING? ASDFGHJKL I came home on Monday, revved up the internets, and actually dropped my computer in joy. If you don't know what I'm talking about, google dat shit, because HIMAPAPA IS FAR TOO GOOD TO US /sob

Anyways, uh yeah look at me being cool with my extended musical metaphor. That was WWI, if anyone couldn't tell.

The men mentioned in the pre-Revolution scene are (obviously) Benjamin Franklin and Samuel Adams.

The story of how America got to be called America is a bit of a whopper, so I won't tell it in the ANs. However, I will say that (if I recall correctly) it involved a wimpy Italian explorer and a meddling French writer. Oh, history.

Next week comes the final chapter! Reviews (constructive criticism, too, because as I've said before, this story is a huge challenge for me, and I thank you all again for tolerating my rambling and likely-fruitless attempts at being profound / metaphorical) are very much appreciated. ^^

Until then!


	3. Henceforth

And so we reach the end.

As always, thanks for all your lovely feedback and for sticking with this little (rather overgrown actually lololol) project, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p><em>Hero <em>

_Alfred could scarcely recognize her anymore. Granted, he had never been terribly well-acquainted with London in the first place, could never read the passages of her streets and byways by heart like Arthur had always wanted him to, but at this point he could hardly tell that he was standing in the middle of the once-bustling Piccadilly Circus anymore. In fact, he found that he could do little else but gape and hug his arms around himself to combat the wind that darted through the yawning pockmarks in the streets and sidewalks like a child through a crumbling playground. _

_The city was quiet and Alfred had little to do, having been only just dismissed from a meeting with a handful of British ambassadors, from which Arthur had been noticeably (painfully) absent. If asked, Alfred might perhaps have said that he was merely out searching for a bite to eat or a look around, wanting to get to know this new London of World War Two, but he was fully aware of his real purpose: to find Arthur, wherever he might have locked himself away, as Alfred full knew he was wont to do in times of crises. _

_However, he was gradually becoming more and more aware that he had nowhere to really begin his search, having tried Arthur's offices and nearby penthouse already and without success. Resigning himself to the futility of his quest, he turned aimlessly up a wide side street, heels singing against the cobblestone, rapping out clear notes that echoed in he still air. A woman too young for the worries that turned her scarlet mouth down darted from a shop, hugging her coat around herself, a grey-faced man stood beneath an awning reading a paper and smoking a cigarette, in the distance Alfred thought he heard a dog bark, but otherwise, quiet reigned, eerily so, as if the entire city were holding its breath, silently and stoically awaiting its destruction. _

_But that _would_ be like Arthur, wouldn't it? _

_Alfred found himself gazing at London as if she were a black-and-white photograph, the focus distorted and grainy, and began to realize that he was seeking color, the flash of green that would betray something growing from the ashes, life, the roughened canvas fabric of Arthur's uniform, the ferocious jealous gleam of his gaze, Arthur's life, Arthur being alive, Arthur wanting to live, Arthur wanting to see his nation live, Arthur wanting that Alfred see him live as proud and regal as he always had been, Arthur, alive, green._

_Alfred was stumbling down the streets now, almost jogging, his heart tearing against his chest. He set his feet to the frantic rhythm of his pulse and London blurred past, a thick watery brushstroke of grey, but Alfred wanted green. His lungs burned, his eyes watered from the rush of the freezing air, people's heads turned as he bolted past them, he skidded around street corners and grew chilled to his bones, but eventually he saw it, just the faintest glance of color, and screamed to a halt in front of Nelson's Column, gaping and pointing and crying _you!_ (he didn't know how loudly). _

_Arthur glanced down at him curiously, arching one brow at his rumpled state, the untucked hem of his dress shirt, the fitful rise and fall of his chest. _

"_Myself indeed," he said quietly, keeping his hands crisply folded across one knee. Alfred swallowed, unsure of whether to be relieved or annoyed that Arthur still looked like a king, perched as he was atop the enormous brass lion with one leg crossed primly over the other, brilliant green uniform pressed impeccably, the color only outmatched by the cold crystal glint of his gaze. _

"_You…" Alfred came to the base of the lion, pressing his palms against its freezing golden hide. "Why weren't you at the meeting?" _

_Arthur blinked. "I wasn't feeling quite up to it, I'm afraid." _

_Alfred snorted. "So you thought coming out here to freeze would be a better plan?"_

_Arthur gave a sardonic little smile and said that he supposed so; Alfred glared, slamming one palm against the lion's hide._

"_Damn, England, I was worried sick about you, you know?" _

_Surprise, but nothing else, crossed Arthur's face. "Were you?" he blinked. "Silly boy." _

"_Don't condescend to me," muttered Alfred; he propped himself up on the thigh of the lion, trying to sling his arms across its back. Arthur recoiled slightly, eyebrows lifting again as he inquired as to what, exactly, Alfred thought he was doing. _

"_Trying to get up here," Alfred answered, voice strained as he struggled to hoist himself up onto the lion. "Give me a hand, won't you?"_

"_Ah, but America," Arthur's mouth bent into a smirk. "That would be condescending, wouldn't it?" _

_Alfred swore, pulling harder, and with a little extra effort was able to lever himself up and over; however, his momentum sent him sliding haphazardly over the slick metal arch of the spine, and in reaching out frantically for something to grab hold of, he unbalanced Arthur rather badly, so that when he had righted himself, legs splayed on either side of the lion's wide back, he realized he was alone on his lofty perch, and that Arthur had been rather unceremoniously dumped to the ground in his wake. _

"_Shit, England, I'm sorry," he leaned over the side, reaching down to offer Arthur his hand. "Are you alright?"_

_Arthur shot him a cold glare. "I'm just fine, America," he batted him away and sat up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He stilled, drew his hand back from his mouth, and stared at it for a moment, eyes narrowed, before he swallowed and sat back on his heels, "…just fine…" _

"_Well, come on, up you go," Alfred waved his hand through the air in an attempt to get Arthur to accept it. "Plenty of room for two." _

_Arthur wouldn't meet his gaze. "I…don't think so, America." _

"_Aw, Christ, England, I promise I won't do it again," Alfred grinned, leaning over just far enough to grab Arthur's hand and pull him to his feet. "Now come on!" _

_To his surprise, however, Arthur winced, and his hand flitted to his side for a moment before he seemed to remember himself. He swallowed again, and Alfred blinked with sudden worry, but it was far too late to stop himself from yanking Arthur up rather forcefully against the side of the lion. Arthur let out his breath sharply, his face seizing in pain again as his ribcage pressed against the metal and he was pulled up to rest beside Alfred, a flash of crimson spreading from the corner of his mouth before he was frantically wiping it away with the tips of his fingers. Not fast enough; Alfred had seen, and besides, there was more blood soaking the fabric around the belt of Arthur's uniform, darkening the brilliant green and smearing against the lion's golden spine. _

_Alfred was seized with terror and guilt for a moment before he realized that merely manhandling Arthur a little couldn't possibly produce such an injury. Willing his pulse to calm, he gripped Arthur by the shoulders and gingerly sat him up, ignoring his venomous glare and sharp intake of breath as he pressed his fingertips gingerly against the spreading bloodstain. _

"_You said you were fine," he breathed, both accusingly and worriedly, and pulled his fingers back, rubbing the blood away between them. "You're such a liar, England." _

"_Fuck off," Arthur spat; drops of blood littered the gold of the metal between them. "_You_ of all people couldn't possibly understand, and I sure as hell don't want your pity -"_

_He gasped both in pain and surprise as Alfred folded around him, not shying away from the cool feel of the wet blood pressing into his expensive suit as he balanced Arthur's chin on his shoulder and wound his arms securely around his back to hold him in place, ignoring his gasped _we're in public what the fuck do you think you're doing _and the hands that plucked feebly at his shoulders. _

"_England," whispered Alfred once the protests had trickled off into quiet fuming. "Forgive me." _

_Arthur stilled in his arms. "I beg your pardon?"_

"_Forgive me," Alfred repeated. "I didn't realize -"_

"_I don't want your goddamn -"_

"_But I _don't _pity you, England. Don't flatter yourself," he paused, leaning back and unwinding himself from Arthur, satisfied that he didn't try to escape, simply sat there staring at his blood smeared across Alfred's shirtfront. "I just wish things didn't have to be this way."_

_After that, they were quiet for a long time. Arthur was still bleeding but he didn't seem to care, simply kept one hand pressed against his side, the other occasionally flitting upwards to wipe at the continuous trickle from one corner of his mouth. Finally, he raised his eyes to Alfred, and he thought for a moment that they weren't green at all but rather reflected the pale London sky that rained bombs and ash. _

"_Take me home, America," he said hoarsely. _

"_Sorry?" _

"_Take me _home, _Alfred," he looked away, worrying his lower lip. "I don't want to sit here anymore. It's cold and I've been here too long and I'm bleeding and I'm finished and it's getting late. Take me home."_

"_O-of course…" murmured Alfred, "…Arthur." He tentatively extended his hand, and though Arthur wouldn't look at him, he folded their fingers together nonetheless, and once they had gotten down from the lion he even allowed himself to be lifted, didn't protest against being tucked into the crook of Alfred's elbow, wordlessly burying his face in the breast of his suit and curling one hand into his bloodstained shirtfront. _

"_My apologies, Alfred," he whispered at some point. "I've gone and ruined your suit." _

_Alfred laughed and told Arthur not to worry, there were plenty more where that came from, after all, at which point Arthur gave a sort of wheezy chuckle, mumbled something similar to _of course there are, ridiculous American industries, nothing but excess,_ then turned his face back into Alfred's chest._

_At first, Alfred supposed he was doing that so as not to have to look at what had been the centerpiece on the crown of his empire; however, when Arthur's breathing evened out against his own, and it became obvious that he had fallen asleep, he was forced to reconsider. _

_Perhaps Arthur was not mourning, not hiding, not turning his face away. Perhaps he just needed a short rest, because, after all, it was tiring work to stay out all day surveying his city, his pride, his shattered jewel, from the lonely backs of the lions._

* * *

><p><em>Arthur couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, and the only sleep he had enjoyed since December seventh had been taken briefly and restlessly on the flight to the American military base. He was plagued by paperwork and demanding ambassadors and phones ringing off the hook, his voice was growing raw from whispering and dictating and sometimes shouting, he was exhausted down to his very bones, but he smiled, for the first times in months, he smiled, and guiltily tried to smooth the expression only to have his face break open again a moment later. <em>

_He shouldn't have been smiling, but Alfred was alive and the American declaration of war was as good as written and for all he tried he couldn't keep his happiness from showing through. They were allies, totalitarianism would not consume Europe, and - even if no longer as an empire - Britain would live. _

_He had been working with the American military for the last couple of days to help with the necessary wartime preparations, bossing silly young boys around and feeling all-around very authoritative. Things were definitely looking up; the first shipment of American troops would leave for England that day, with earlier regiments having already been sent away to Japan, and in a few weeks Arthur would be with them, delving back into the war with a renewed enthusiasm and thirst for victory. _

_He was standing outside on the turnpike watching the last of the troops load into their planes and prepare for takeoff, the chill wind lashing his face and nose, when he first heard that booming voice, that high clear laughter, and immediately turned on his heel, telling himself that it couldn't be, it was impossible! even as his pulse stuttered and he stumbled towards the sound. _

_He tripped to a stop and straightened, blinking in the glare from the clear winter sunlight that bounced wildly off the frames of Alfred's glasses, illuminated the gold in his hair, caught against the blue of his eyes. He was leaning against the side of the cockpit, talking loudly with some miscellaneous superior, but actually fell entirely silent when he spotted Arthur tentatively approaching the plane. After a moment, a grin split across his face, and he began to wave frantically, jumping up and down as if Arthur couldn't already see him perfectly well. The man he had been talking to glanced between them, said something to Alfred, nodded, and then stepped down from the plane, cordially saluting Arthur as he went. Arthur mechanically returned the gesture but forgot to turn his palm down, American-style, in his haste to clamber up to Alfred; he came to a halt at the edge of the stairs, gripping the railings tightly in both hands as if he would be blown away by the slightest breeze without their support._

"_Howdy, Arthur," grinned Alfred, running a hand briefly through his hair only to have the wind whip it out of place again. "How are…things?"_

_Arthur swallowed, trying to fight down his smile, his laughter, his desire to throw his arms around the dear boy's neck and hold him there. _

"_Things are well." _

"_Good," Alfred chuckled a little shrilly. "Great. Fantastic. Uh…" he glanced down, fidgeting, "things here are…are good too. Er…well, I guess they're not so great what with the whole attack and stuff, you know, but…but hey, my wounds have closed over, and I'm just raring to go!" Alfred shot Arthur a thumbs-up. "So we're in this together, right?" _

"_Y-yes, Alfred," Arthur stammered. "In this together. Allies."_

_Alfred grinned toothily. "Allies." _

_Something about the way he said the word brought a suggestion of heat to Arthur's collar, and he glanced away, grateful that someone called for all pilots to board before he realized with a swoop of dread in his stomach that when the pilots boarded, Alfred boarded too, and that when the pilots flew away, so did Alfred, to whatever fate should await him across the Atlantic. Arthur swallowed, cautiously glancing back at Alfred to see that he was still grinning, albeit a little more nervously. _

"_Well, that's my call," he chirped, but didn't move. _

"_So it is," said Arthur, wringing his hands without realizing he was doing so. "Say, Alfred, won't you…ahm…won't you take care?" he willed the flush to leave his cheeks, the curious sparkle to leave Alfred's eyes, the grin to stop curving his shapely mouth. "F-for my sake, I suppose. We…can't have you getting much more banged up now, can we?" he glanced down again, chewing on his lower lip. "N-not that you should think it really matters so much, because it doesn't, I could really go either way, b-but it's nice to be reassured, if you know what I mean, and…oy, what the fuck is wrong with you, who do you think you are anyways, smirking at me like that?" _

_Alfred chuckled, but Arthur thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty cross his expression. _

"_And you take care too, Arthur. For my sake. No excuses." _

_Had he gotten closer? Arthur resisted the urge to take a step back, muttering that it was probably about time Alfred got in the goddam plane, after all. However, Alfred made no sign of moving, his expression growing suddenly serious, though his eyes still danced. _

"_Don't you understand, Arthur?" _

_Arthur blinked. "I say, understand what, exactly?"_

_And then, for the briefest of moments, Alfred's mouth was pressed against his, lips softly chapped and tasting of coffee and cigarettes and military-rationed chocolate, warm for just an instant before he was gone, leaving Arthur speechless in his wake, hand cupped over his mouth both in his disbelief and an involuntary effort to keep the flavor there. _

"_I love you, Arthur," Alfred grinned, shouting above the roar of the engine. "Always have, always will, I reckon." And with that, he hoisted himself into the cockpit and shut the door, leaving Arthur flushed, tousled, and whispering that he loved Alfred too, always had, always would, he reckoned, to no one but the wind. _

"But Arthur, you've said so yourself, the entire world is tired of hearing me babble on about how I'm the hero."

Arthur laughed appreciatively, buckling his seatbelt as the signal light chimed on and the captain's voice crackled to life over the intercom. With the European conference over, they were heading back to the United States for a spell, though Arthur would only be able to stay a couple of weeks before he had to return to England.

"I won't argue with you there," Arthur smiled, patting Alfred's arm affectionately. "But there _were_ some moments when it was…well, almost true."

Alfred tipped his head to the side curiously. "Such as?"

"Oh, I don't know," Arthur turned away, irritated by the pleased little smile that had begun to toy with the corners of Alfred's lips. "Maybe you're right after all."

"Aw, Artie, don't be like that," Alfred smirked, veering in close just to make Arthur more uncomfortable. "Come on, I wanna hear. Who knows," he grinned, brandishing the empty notepad he had pulled from his carryon in one hand and a pen in the other. "It might help me write this damn speech."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You're supposed to store tray tables for takeoff, idiot."

"Ah, don't be such a goody-two-shoes. Live a little, man!" Alfred flipped his tray table up and down once or twice for emphasis. "And while you're at it, tell me about when you thought I was a hero."

Arthur glared. "I'll do nothing of the sort."

Alfred pouted, Alfred waggled his tray table up and down some more, Alfred clung to Arthur's arm, Alfred shook Arthur, Alfred whined, Alfred grew melodramatic and flopped back in his seat, casting his arm over his eyes with a sigh, Alfred returned to plucking at Arthur's sleeve for a while, Alfred generally made both a fool of himself and a very noticeable scene in the middle of a crowded airplane, and Arthur crossed one leg over the other, cracked open a book, and set himself very determinedly on ignoring his flight partner.

Finally, Alfred relented, yanking his tray table down again and taking his pen to his notepad, jotting the date down in the corner of the page before he set the tip of the pen at the first empty line and stopped, brow furrowing as he rested his cheek in his hand. Arthur smirked.

"Writer's block, love?"

"Because _someone _refused to help me."

"Oh yes," Arthur sighed, turning a page of his novel. "I'm terribly cruel."

Alfred was quiet for a moment and Arthur could hear the whisper of his pen against the paper.

"What, have you actually got an idea?"

Alfred shook his head, and after a minute more ripped the page from the notebook and brandished it at Arthur. Scrawled across the yellow paper were two stick figures, one with enormous eyebrows (presumably Arthur) and the other striking a pose with his hands on his hips and something that looked like a cape fluttering out behind him (presumably Alfred).

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"And what's this?"

"Us!" Alfred chirped, grinning mischievously, "I'm the hero, and you're my sidekick!"

Arthur was quiet for a moment before he reached out and crumpled the drawing, rolling his eyes at Alfred's cry of indignation as he tucked the wad of paper into the side pocket of his jacket.

"I am nobody's sidekick. Now hush, dear," he reached over and tapped Alfred's still-empty notepad sharply. "Genius won't write itself."

* * *

><p><em>Power<em>

_They hadn't gotten much time to see each other since the alliance began; they telephoned and wrote each other frequently, had been out to dinner once or twice, and enjoyed a handful of encounters during Operation Torch, but nothing more. Time passed and the war dragged on; Alfred fought during D-Day and Arthur was beside himself with worry, the Allies took Paris and he was overjoyed, the Americans advanced across the Pacific and he worried more, eventually Germany's resistances began to crumble and hope began to color the streets of London again before finally, in the soft late spring of 1945, the Third Reich fell, Europe let out the breath it had been holding for nearly a decade, and Alfred tore through the crowds that thronged Trafalgar Square to grab Arthur and bend him halfway over and kiss him with all the passion and relief and exultation and love that the victory allowed him to express. _

_At first Arthur was worried he would fall – he felt the ground spinning beneath him and tangled his hands almost harshly into Alfred's hair – but he soon realized just how strong Alfred's hold on him was, how he could cradle the nape of Arthur's neck quite snugly in just one of his palms and pull him close with the other arm as he kissed him breathless, finally pulling away to actually lift him into the air and whirl him around, his laugh echoing clear and bright, filling his ears and making him dizzy. _

_Arthur put his hands on Alfred's shoulders to steady himself, finding that he was too happy and surprised and lightheaded to complain about the overt public display. In fact, he realized that he was laughing, too, despite himself, though he gasped and smiled warmly when Alfred leaned in close and whispered that they had done it, they had really done it! and done it together at that. _

_Still high off the ground in Alfred's arms, with one leg wrapped rather suggestively around his hip, Arthur took his face in his hands, leaned down, and kissed him, smiling to feel his glasses nudge against his cheek and the soft sigh in the back of his throat. After a long moment, he pulled away again; Alfred grinned crookedly and straightened his glasses, finally setting Arthur down and taking his hands. _

"_We've done it," he murmured again. _

"_Indeed we have, Alfred," Arthur whispered, twining their fingers. "We've won the war." _

_Alfred grinned. "_This _war."_

"_Oh, right," Arthur took a step forwards. "That mess across the Pacific. Well, that's mostly _your _problem." _

_Alfred chuckled, "of course," and lifted their intertwined hands to press a kiss to each of Arthur's knuckles, eyes glittering suggestively up at him. _

_His usual habits finally returning to him, Arthur flushed and tore his hand away. "Stop with those ridiculous displays; we're in public." _

"_Didn't seem to bother you before," Alfred smirked and tried to tuck his hands into his pockets, at which point Arthur abruptly realized just how desperately he didn't want to let go, didn't want to stop touching Alfred despite himself because he felt that if he did, everything would disappear and they wouldn't be safe and victorious but rather still caught in the middle of that dreadful war, in constant danger of losing themselves and each other and the love that had always existed but they had only just begun to enjoy. So Arthur very determinedly latched onto Alfred's hand (though that was the closest he allowed him for the rest of the day), ignoring his start of surprise and the affection that bloomed in his eyes and the curve of his mouth immediately afterwards. _

_They celebrated long into the night, being shuffled around first by the ecstatic crowds then by various politicians (at one point they were coerced into a lengthy audience regarding the future of Anglo-American relations, which was of course scattered with awkward pauses and blushes and suggestive commentaries on Alfred's part), giving and receiving so many congratulations and taking so many mandatory photographs that they both felt compelled to get more than a little tipsy before the evening was out. In fact, after they were separated by a handful of journalists, Alfred returned with his face peppered with lipstick smudges, ran a hand through his mussed hair, and rather drunkenly sniggered that British gals just couldn't seem to keep their hands off him. Arthur was certainly peeved (though really more of by the slight directed at the woman of his country than by jealousy), but the alcohol made him looser and he decided that the best punishment for Alfred would be a reminder of whom he really belonged to. _

_So they fell into bed together amidst the haze of champagne and victory, scarcely able to stumble through the door of Arthur's penthouse because they were so intent on holding on and not letting go and making sure that everything was real by kissing each other senseless. Alfred managed to slip out of his uniform jacket and work off the heavy buckle of Arthur's trousers without breaking away from him, and even as he dove in for the buttons of his shirt Arthur was wrapping his legs tight up around his waist, drawing him in closer, trying to tangle his arms around his neck. Alfred let out a muffled chuckle against his mouth and pulled away to slip out of his own undershirt, bending back up towards Arthur to fumble with the buttons of his green canvas uniform as Arthur dazedly tried to slip out of his boots. They fell to the floor with a clatter and Alfred seemed to surge back up into his arms, gripping his face and craning his neck to plunge his tongue deeper into his mouth, bare chest scorching hot against Arthur's halfway undone shirt. _

_After a very long moment during which he simply resigned himself to letting Alfred have his way, Arthur pushed away again and managed to slip his shirt to the floor, ripping it up over his head and faintly hearing the tinkle of his dog tags as they clacked against each other on their way back down to rest at the dip of his collarbone. Alfred groaned and transferred to his neck, pressing his teeth gently into his jugular; Arthur gasped and swatted him halfheartedly, struggling to kick his trousers from around his heels in their new position, pressed up flush against the door, helplessly wrapped around each other._

"_Alfred," Arthur murmured, tipping his head back as Alfred advanced across his Adam's apple, down towards his collarbone, palms running over the bend of his spine. "Alfred, you do…" his words trailed off into a brief sigh of encouragement, "you do realize where this is headed."_

"_Course," Alfred's voice was curiously muffled against his clavicle. "Where's the bed?" _

_Arthur chuckled fondly. "Let me go for just a minute, won't you?"_

_Alfred whined, shook his head, and suddenly Arthur found himself being scooped from the floor; he let out a shout of surprise and fastened onto Alfred's neck out of instinct alone. _

"_What the hell do you think you're -"_

_He was silenced with a kiss; he only halfheartedly tried to resist, and Alfred pulled away with a chuckle. _

"_Just show me the way, Artie." _

"_You really think I'm going to let you -" but his words trailed off into another sigh as Alfred burrowed into his neck again, and he found himself pulling closer despite himself, relaxing into the crook of Alfred's arms. "Fine," he said shortly, turning his face away to hide his embarrassment. "Down the hall and to the left. Full speed ahead, if you please." _

_Alfred grinned. "You got it, cowboy." _

_Arthur knew he must have blushed spectacularly because Alfred sniggered and practically skipped towards his bedroom, throwing open the door with one foot and whirling Arthur onto the bed, clambering over him and immediately kissing him, hands already sliding downwards to slip beneath the hem of his boxers. Arthur was left struggling to recover from his sudden dizziness, caught between getting Alfred to slow down and simply marveling at the raw strength with which he carried himself, the careless power he exerted by merely inhaling and exhaling against Arthur as they moved. He wasn't unloving or brusque in any sense; actually, he was quite the opposite, tender despite the strength that was quickly becoming obvious behind his kisses and touches, but nonetheless that breathtaking power was there, and Arthur was suddenly realizing in exactly what position the war had left Alfred._

_At one point he lifted his hand to incredulously run his fingers along the smooth ripples of muscle in his arm, unable to hide his awe. _

"_You've gotten so big," he whispered, and Alfred stopped for a moment, giving him a very curious look (almost as if he were afraid). _

"_You're not getting sentimental on me _now, _are you, Arthur?" _

"_Certainly not," Arthur chuckled, dragging him closer. "It was merely an observation. Now _move, _if you please." _

_And move Alfred did, fast and forceful enough to make Arthur gasp and arch beneath him. He paused for a moment to cast Arthur a worried glance, reaching up to run his knuckle across his cheek. _

"_Fuck," his breathing was labored and Arthur wanted to smile. "Did I hurt you?"_

_Arthur shook his head and struggled upwards to wrap his arms around Alfred's neck. _

"_No, of course not, love, you're doing just fine," he paused. "It's only that you're…terribly strong." _

_Alfred dipped his chin into the crook of Arthur's shoulder. "Am I?" _

_Arthur nodded. "I don't think you realize it, but…well, this war will change a lot of things. Has changed a lot of things. Probably…forever."_

_He felt Alfred suck in his breath against him. "Like?" _

"_Well, for one thing, I'm not a world power anymore, and you are." _

"_I am?" _

"_You'll see it soon enough. You don't know your own strength, Alfred, what you'll be capable of…" Arthur swallowed, leaning back to meet Alfred's gaze, curving his palm around his cheek. "But don't think about that right now. At the moment, it's probably best to…ahm…finish what we've started, so to speak." _

_Alfred looked confused for a moment, then smiled slyly. "I'll be extra careful, just for you." _

_Arthur rolled his eyes. "Please don't bother. I still have my pride, you know." _

"_Nah," Alfred grinned wickedly at him. "You just wanna be fucked." _

_Arthur was about to scold Alfred for being so crass, but he started up again and his breath was knocked out of him, leaving him incapable of anything but gasping and sighing and clinging to the curve of Alfred's shoulder as if his life depended on it. _

"_You alright?" asked Alfred at one point, though he didn't slow. _

"_Fucking brilliant," Arthur managed. "I told you before, you're doing fine. More than fine," he tipped his head back for a moment with a sigh. "…wonderfully." _

"_I love you," whispered Alfred suddenly, pressing his lips to Arthur's forehead. "I love you." _

_Arthur sighed and hoisted himself upwards to kiss Alfred on the mouth, tangling his arms tighter around his neck and his legs more snugly around his waist, heels bumping up against his trembling hips. _

"_I love you, too," he gasped when they parted, and Alfred grinned at him, glasses scarcely clinging to the tip of his nose with sweat. _

"_Victory is ours."_

_Arthur smiled and let Alfred burrow against his throat as they began to approach the end. Alfred let out a grunt and Arthur arched upwards from the mattress with a strangled gasp of Alfred's name, digging his hands into his hair as if he were about to fall from his arms. _

"_Yes, dear," he gasped as they collapsed back onto the mattress, Alfred's weight pressing down against his ribcage. "Victory is yours."_

* * *

><p><em>Mortal <em>

Alfred was still struggling to get his suitcases out of the cab, so Arthur went on into his house ahead of him, taking the key from beneath the silly fake rock where Alfred claimed it would always be safe and slipping it into the lock, smiling as he clicked the door open and stepped inside, taking a deep breath and relishing the familiar musty old air despite himself.

Alfred hadn't been home in a while, and though his housekeepers took generally good care of the place, there were traces of dust about the banisters and stains on the old mirror hanging from the far wall of the front hall; in slipping out of his coat, Arthur caught a glimpse of himself and frowned, running his hand through his upset hair, fingers lingering on the dark circles beneath his eyes. Alfred soon appeared behind him, dumping their baggage onto the floor, and in turning to scold him Arthur realized that he wasn't looking much better, glasses smudged and mouth drawn down a little at the corners, though he smiled to see Arthur standing in his front hall like he owned the place.

"It's been too long," Alfred ran his finger along the edge of the banister and frowned, rubbing his index finger and thumb together and watched the dust disperse into the air, twinkling in the grey light of the unlit hallway. "I've missed this place."

"I have, too," admitted Arthur, though he glared when Alfred turned on him with a smirk. "Oh, bugger off. You know I've always been fond of this old house," he patted the banister affectionately, though the wood groaned beneath his hand. "After all, it was I who brought you here."

"Yeah, yeah," and suddenly Alfred was drawing Arthur into his arms, resting his chin on the top of his head and pressing him snugly into his chest. "I'm tired, babe. Let's go to bed."

Arthur sighed. "Alfred, I know that long flights make you antsy, but we're both jetlagged and I'm really not in the mood."

Alfred laughed and kissed the top of his head. "Come on, give me some credit. That's not what I meant. I was thinking more of something along the lines of a nap."

Arthur blinked and pulled away so that he could give Alfred a very curious look.

"A nap?" he arched a brow. "Isn't that a little…_mundane_…for your tastes? Not long ago you would've called me an old man for even suggesting such a thing."

Alfred laughed. "It's not mundane when I get to be snuggling up next to you, all cute and sleepy -"

"Alfred, you are walking on very thin ice with those adjectives."

"Fine, fine. You're mostly grouchy, anyways," he chuckled again. "And besides, maybe I'm ready to enjoy some old man things, too. I'm…ready to rest."

Arthur blinked in surprise but tweaked Alfred's cheek affectionately. "Very well, if you say so. Let's get our luggage organized first, though, yeah?"

Alfred nodded and took their things up to the bedroom, flipping on lights and shaking the dust from the curtains and muttering that he really needed to have a talk with the cleaning crew as he went. Arthur followed leisurely behind, gazing at the familiar portraits of famous American politicians and philosophers that cluttered the wall of the stairwell, hung crookedly along with Alfred's collection of photographs, the pictures gradually evolving from scratchy sepia to black-and-white to color, depicting soldiers and speeches and monuments and once Alfred standing with a NASA official flashing a thumbs-up at the camera as a shuttle took off in the background. Arthur smiled fondly at that, remembering the clumsy boy with overgrown dreams that he somehow made true, and was reaching out to touch it when Alfred called to him from the bedroom. He hurried up the rest of the stairs and found Alfred already unloading his things into the bureau; he glanced up at Arthur with a brief smile before he returned to folding his socks and tucking them away in the top drawer.

"Took you long enough," he shut the drawer and stood up with a satisfied sigh. "How long are you staying again, babe?"

"My name is Arthur," he muttered, but allowed Alfred to drag him into his arms again. "And as long as possible."

"So probably only a few days," said Alfred mournfully into his hair. "Can you be here to watch me give that speech?"

"Provided you actually write the damn thing," Arthur muttered, but leaned up to kiss Alfred on the nose. "Don't fret, love, I wouldn't dare miss it."

He felt Alfred sigh beneath him. "Good. I want you there. I think it'll make it easier."

Arthur smirked. "I'm honored."

"Shut up."

They ended up in the living room, and although when Alfred first tried to wrestle Arthur into his lap he only earned himself a violent smack with a hardcover novel, eventually Arthur found himself tucked between his knees despite himself, back curving against the dip of his stomach, head rested at his chest, trying to keep reading and not be distracted by the gentle rhythm of Alfred's breathing and the whisper of his pen as he drafted yet another version of the speech.

Eventually, Alfred crumpled the paper and threw it across the living room with a low growl, flopping melodramatically back over the arm of the sofa. Arthur sighed and shut his book, craning his head up to catch a glimpse of the underside of Alfred's jaw.

"You're absolutely ridiculous."

Alfred groaned and sat back up, snaking an arm around Arthur's stomach to draw him closer. "I _know. _I just…" he gave a sigh, resting his chin in the dip of Arthur's shoulder. "I still don't know what to say."

"Well, you've certainly dismissed all my ideas."

Alfred let out another small sigh against the back of his neck. "I know that, too. It's not that they were wrong, it's just that they…" he paused, "…weren't right."

"Thank goodness you've clarified _that _distinction," Arthur reached up to pat Alfred's cheek to soften the words. "You'll figure it out, dear."

"Do you mean my identity?" Alfred growled with frustration. "_I_ know what it is, of course, I just can't put it into words. Who am I? I am America. I am Alfred F. Jones. I am the United States. I am America," he threw up his hands. "I am America and there's nothing else to say!"

Arthur swallowed, fingers pressing down hard on the spine of his book.

"You are America," he whispered, whether to Alfred or himself or to no one at all he wasn't sure.

_You are America, the nameless little boy stumbling unsuspectingly through the grass, the creature that feared us strange new men at first, and probably would have done better never stopping._

_You are America, the first to ever break away from me and the first to establish your place again in my arms when I on my knees was the only one who still stood up. _

_You are America, the young man who broke Japan over your knee like a twig and tossed him aside like it was all the same to you when really it was quite the opposite and you were terrified instead of proud that you had changed the world forever. _

_You are America, who hated the color red because if unleashed its stains would reach far and wide and lap like blood against your borders, and though I was scared of what you were capable of and wouldn't tell you, I _did_ agree with you._

_You are America, who will never completely forgive me for not accompanying you into the nameless jungles of Vietnam, for not crouching in the rain and filth and fear, though in the end you certainly forgave me enough to sob in my arms when you came home and again were forced to realize exactly what you had done. _

_You are America, who grew and grew to finally overstep your own boundaries and snap in two; you thought it was sudden but now you begin to realize that the decline started long ago and merely climaxed with the gaping hole in the New York skyline, and it was all rather symbolic, was it not? You didn't cry that time, you didn't even wince when I cleaned your wounds, you wouldn't look at anyone for days. You couldn't believe it. If I didn't love you so I would laugh at the irony. _

_But you are America, your name is as mysterious and boundless as your lands and your arms and what once was the scope of your dreams, and I love you, then and now and henceforth. _

"But Alfred," Arthur breathed, his book slipping from his hands to the floor. "That's exactly it."

* * *

><p><em>Henceforth<em>

The afternoon was brilliant and Alfred was unsure of himself. He showed Arthur to his seat at the foot of the stage, kissed him distractedly on the cheek when he was certain no cameras were looking their way, then hurried away, the tails of his suit flapping behind him as he disappeared backstage. Arthur crossed one leg over the other, and folded his hands primly on one knee like a fine bird on a perch. Despite the fair autumn weather, the atmosphere on the Mall was tense, full of hushed conversations and uneasy glances exchanged between the people who had gathered in Washington DC to hear Alfred's address.

_But who is he? This Jones person, I mean. _

_I'll be damned if I know._

_I think my father used to talk about him. Something about patriotism and the like. _

_That's all well and good, but what's the point of bringing us all out here?_

_What could he possibly have to say?_

_I don't know what the president thinks he's doing._

_I reckon this is just a bid for votes in the next primary. _

_Full of false promises, every last one of them. _

_Yes, well, what else is new, I mean, really – _

Then Alfred was tapping the microphone and the crowd fell silent.

"Hi, everybody," he said, fiddling the microphone a moment more before he leaned back and gave a little wave. "I don't know how many of you recognize me, but…well, I find that all of you seem familiar, in some way or another at least," he paused, toying with his collar a moment, "you see, ladies and gentlemen," another pause, "I am Alfred F. Jones. I am America. I am the United States. I am _you,_" he gestured out to the entire crowd. "I am you and you and you and you. Every one. I always have been and I always will be. I see what you see, I feel what you feel, I know what you know, I hurt when you hurt and when you smile I smile. I know you don't remember me, but that's what I am."

The crowd was silent; not even a child cried or gurgled, as if they were all muffled against their mothers' breasts. Arthur was tense in his seat. Alfred sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and lifted the microphone to his lips again.

"I know you are tired of lies, and false promises. I want to be honest with you so I am going to try my hardest," he lifted his chin into the air and gripped the microphone more firmly. "You are right when you say I am lost. When you say I am confused. And I…I won't say I know what to do. I won't say I know what's going to happen. I won't say I know where to go from here or that I can change what's happening to us or that things will ever be like they were, because I don't know, and you don't know, either. Nobody does," he took a deep breath. "But I will say, America, that…there is nothing to fear. Whatever we become, there is nothing to fear. Why?" he lifted his gaze to the crowd as if seeking an answer and was met with silence; Arthur could hear breath being held around him, the great collective suspense of a thousand people.

"I guess I could tell you a thousand reasons. Because we are strong and brave. Because I know that even if you sometimes hate this country, hate _me, _you would jump to her and my defense in an instant should she or I ever be threatened. Because we are proud. Because we are together. Because we are the greatest nation the world has ever seen. Because we are the first. Because we will be the last. But really, America," he paused, letting the quiet drag on for an instant, "I think it is because we are all of these things, and a thousand more, all together. There is no one way to describe who we are. We are the New World, we are the United States, we are the land of the free, the home of the brave, we are the Union and the Confederacy, we are the melting pot, we are an Ally, we are a power and a soldier and a hero, we are the yanks, the gringos, the rednecks, we are the liberals and the conservatives and every shade in between, we are the greatest and we are the worst, we are the dreamers, we are the doers," he pushed up his glasses with his index finger. "In short, our name is anything you could imagine. There is no limit to what defines us; our name will hold them all, come what may. To summarize, my friends," he paused to smile, sunlight glinting off his teeth and the frames of his glasses and catching in the gold of his hair. "We will be alright however we are. We are America, and so we shall always be, before and now and henceforth."

* * *

><p>Sorry if I've disappointed anyone, but I really can't think of just one way to describe this country; I'm sure it's possible, but certainly beyond my intellect to do so. :

For those unacquainted with London, in the middle of Trafalgar Square there is a monument called Nelson's Column, which is, guess what, a column (omg) surrounded by big brass lions, which served me well as a symbol for the fall of empire. XD

December 7th, 1941 was Pearl Harbor, of course, which got _finally _got the USA into that little thing called WWII.

The Third Reich fell on May 8th, 1945. Yay VE-day sexytiems - I was tempted to write virgin!Alfred_ again_ but resisted, lololol.

Anyways, that was good fun. I'm still cleaning the blood and tears from my keyboard, but on the bright side, I have indeed survived, and am glad that everyone seems to have liked this story thus far. You guys are seriously the greatest. ^^

(I'm going to start my next big AU _very _soon, so keep your eyes peeled if you so wish! :3)

See u gaiz later!


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